


TIE Fighter: Specters and Visions (A History)

by ImperialGirl



Series: Star Wars: TIE Fighter [5]
Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Backstory, Chiss Fic, Drabbles, F/M, Gen, Imperial Fic, Lots of OCs - Freeform, TIE Fighter, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 95,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialGirl/pseuds/ImperialGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This accompanies the TIE Fighter stories (Prime Wing, Command Decisions, Turning Point, and Resurrection, so far).  It was intended as various backstories and deleted scenes, but it's taken on a life of its own and is now primarily backstory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Indecent Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A vignette and the start of a series of them providing backstory to TIE Fighter: Command Decisions and TIE Fighter: Resurrection. This is years before the Battle of Yavin, far in the Unknown Regions on Csilla, and fair warning, I have my own, rather firm ideas about their society and politics. So we’re going with that. Same rules as all the other TIE Fighter stories: the Thrawn Trilogy is canon up until it diverges, the non-special-editions of the films are canon, EVERYTHING else is entirely subject to my picking and choosing.
> 
> Scoobyice8, you wanted more about Lisetha and Thrawn? Here you go....

 

“You realize, daughter, you can’t avoid the question forever.” Als’ele’kadre, daughter of the Fourth Family and widow of Terl’an’harana of the Second Family, stared at her eldest offspring with the usual mixture of exasperation and resignation. Reli’set’harana, Lady of the Second Family, ascended to the Council on her father Lanhar’s death, was seated calmly at what was now her table, her correspondence before her, expression serene. The veiled retainer standing silently behind her moved equally silently to refill Seleka’s cup of chai without waiting to be told, but then, the servants would expect an order from Lisetha now anyway, or at least permission to obey an order from her mother. She was eldest, she was Council, she was mistress of herself and in many ways of her family now as well.

And she was, as the stack of discarded missives indicated, stubborn as ever.

Lanhar had indulged her, that was the problem, and Seleka had allowed it. Whether he’d favored his eldest because she was eldest or because she was clever (some in Seleka’s birth family said sly, though they had not said it where Lanhar could hear) and quick and thrived on the same things he had-language, culture, flying those thrice-damned-dangerous clawcraft, and most of all the arcane world of politics–Seleka had never known, but her late husband had raised a true daughter in Lisetha. And that meant while she would be polite, charming, and proper as could be, once she set herself in a position she was more immobile than a glacier and shifting her from that stance even more futile than trying to direct snows where to fall.

“I am aware that, politically and genetically, it will be necessary for me at some point to marry and produce an heir,” Lisetha said. “Especially that last, I know my siblings as well as you do. But I see no need to rush the point. We’ve barely put off mourning, and I have many duties now. Unless the First decides to offer someone, and they don’t have any males of suitable age or reason to ally with us, I will be doing the choosing and I choose to put it off for now.”

“Except the offers you’re rejecting outright,” Seleka said. “The Third–“

“Garn’ase’denoth? He’s an idiot, and a boring one at that, and not attractive enough to make up for it. If I want to look at stupid and ugly, I’ll watch my little sister entertain her suitors. Of which she has too many, by the way, at least before our brother or I are even safely attached. And not a useful one in the lot thus far.”

“Kelah is not of as serious a bent as you, and will have her amusements,” Seleka said. Privately, she did not disagree entirely; her youngest, Telk’ela’harana, was a typical third child, more an indulgence herself than necessary for either Family’s posterity (secured by Lisetha and Rael’or’kadre, the only son) and as such she had a habit of swinging between pride and resentment in her station. Her studies as an Archivist had always been somewhat less than serious.

Listha’s lips pressed in a thin line and there was just the slightest tightening at the corners of her eyes. “She will have them as I permit them. If she continues being a useless flirt, that will not be for long.” Even her tone of voice was a feminine echo of her father, and Seleka felt a fresh pang of grief. Lisetha turned back to the correspondence. “These other offers are just as ridiculous. Too young or too old, the Fifth suggests a boy that’s your second cousin and I think some of these marriages are a bit too consanguineous already.”

“At least they don’t insult us as the Eighth does.” Seleka picked up that particular message, which had been on the bottom of the pile, holding it by two fingertips as if the paper itself was offensive. “Second is a bit of a reach to begin with, let alone the first of the Family. And to pile on the insult by offering a trial-son . . . no matter how oblique or neatly phrased the very notion’s degraded.”

Lisetha frowned. “A trial-son? I didn’t see that one.” She held out her hand for the message, obviously checking herself from an imperious flick of her fingers. “The Eighth and a trial-son . . .why does that sound familiar?’

“I’ve no idea, but you know that means a common-born. And no matter how exceptional a soldier he might be that’s hardly suitable when you’re tossing aside blood-sons of much higher rank.”

Her daughter wasn’t listening. “I remember now,” she said, even as her eyes scanned down the letter. “Mitth’raw’nuruodo. Baseborn, yes, but the youngest commander in remembered history. He has an older brother, as I recall, but he hasn’t been made trial. The elder’s a gifted officer. The younger is supposed to be . . . unusual. _Spectacularly_ talented. Not entirely popular, but then how many genuinely talented are?”

“They must hope if he makes a spectacular match so far above his birth station it would be a political advantage to him personally in addition to the Family.” Seleka couldn’t help the sniff.

Lisetha still sounded oddly distracted. “As it would be.” She set down the Eighth’s letter and stared into the middle distance in that strange way she had, looking at everything and nothing, fingers steepled together in front of her and tapping against each other. Before she even said anything, that silent servant placed a stylus and her letterbox, reserved for the most ritualized and traditional of communications, on the table before her mistress. Lisetha took out a fresh sheet of the expensive fine paper, and studied it as if imagining the script before she set it out.

“You’re not going to open with _them_!” Seleka knew she sounded much too emotional for her daughter’s taste. Lisetha detested overt snobbery, also a relic of her father and being of the second-highest Family. Only the First exceeded them in security in their station. “You cast away offers from Families nearly as highly placed as your own, but you’ll meet with a common-born officer trial-son from a Family almost as low-placed–“

“Yes, I will. Assuming he is amenable, of course. Someone so remarkable might be an advantage as a husband to me, and even if he isn’t, he’s certainly someone worth meeting.” Lisetha was writing now, her script not quite as fluid as it really ought to be, but she always rushed it a bit. “The rest of these, I have met on several occasions and they bore me already. I was still in mourning for Father when the promotion and announcement of his trial status were made, so I have _not_ met this Mitth’raw’nuruodo.” She paused, considering. “Thrawn. Such a brusque name, no extraneous vowels like some of ours. I wonder if it fits the man.”

“ _Daughter_!” Technically Seleka no longer had the right to rebuke her own child, but sometimes she was so deliberately shocking it was impossible not to. “You’ve never met him even formally! Even in private, you have no business using his core name. I certainly hope you can maintain some sense of decorum and propriety if he does have the unmitigated nerve to call on you. Otherwise even a common-born will be shocked.”

Lisetha only smiled serenely and kept writing. “Well, if he is so easily shocked and appalled, then I’ll know he does not, in fact, suit me after all.”

When Seleka had gone, Lisetha gave it a count of two minutes to make sure neither she, nor Kelah or Lorkad would be storming in with further objections, before saying to the ‘servant,’ “I believe it’s safe, Master.”

Aleishia Zei-Venah, human, castaway, and once a Jedi Knight, removed the camsilk that hid her offworld, inferior origins from prying eyes. “Perhaps I don’t have enough experience with parents and children, but should you really be quite so high-handed with your mother? It seems disrespectful.”

“Over a year and you haven’t noted our ways?” Lisetha nibbled the end of the stylus thoughtfully. “It’s her place now to respect me. I excuse her in this; the Fourth Family are a little more fixated on blood; Second has the luxury of being more open-minded. Father would have–“ She heard the un-aristocratic, childish catch to her voice and paused to compose herself. “Father would have approved of considering new blood, especially one already accomplished despite being–“ and she glanced at the letter again–“only a few months’ my junior.”

“You’re quite young for your high position.” Aleishia was, Lisetha had eventually discerned, not old herself. Very young, in fact, by her species’ standards. But even injured, delirious, crashed on an isolated moon barely inside Ascendancy space, she’d always had a serenity and confidence Lisetha found herself envying.

And, of course, the Force.

Lisetha shivered and closed her eyes. She had always assumed her sixth sense, that warned her of dangers and when an event was great import, that gave her hints into the minds and souls of those around her, perhaps even gave her the reflexes which made flying a much easier task, were simply . . . unusual good fortune. And then they had lead her to the isolated moon, diverting her journey when she’d grieved privately for her Father and taken a first hard, adult look at the real lay of the sector, and she had found the strange alien injured and alone, sole survivor of a viscous attack. The way of her people had said to leave this odd creature to her fate. Lisetha had never been one for rigid obedience to tradition, at least not in the place of sound judgement. It had been days before they had worked out an effective means of communication, weeks before it became more fluent, and longer still before Lisetha had genuinely accepted the truth of what her strange guest told her.

As the Force was with Aleishia, so was it with Lisetha.

And when she had read the missive from the Eighth Family, she’d felt a tremor in it. Her mother was correct, it was, no matter how eloquently-phrased, an enormous gamble on their part, and if she had been so inclined she could take the suggestion of marriage to a trial-son as a severe insult. But instead she’d felt that uncertain wavering, that sense of right, suggesting that she go this way rather than that, and while it was never more than a mental sort of nudge, this time she was certain it was pushing her in the direction of Mitth’raw’nuruodo. Perhaps not to marry–that would still be an enormous leap and while she had no desire to be a slave to traditions she was still newly made Council and that would be a dramatic statement. But she should, at least, meet him. _That_ impulse from the mysterious power around her was undeniable.

“Strong feelings, apprentice?” Aleishia kept her voice low, and she spoke the odd, awkward language that was her native tongue. Lisetha enjoyed learning it, it was a challenge, and it did have its uses as a code no one was likely to break.

But now it was the content of the question, not the language it was in, that occupied her thoughts. “Not yet, Master.” She touched stylus to parchment again and continued to write. “Not yet.”


	2. A Strategic Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mitth'raw'nuruodo makes a tactical decision.

Movies » Star Wars » **TIE Fighter: Outtakes, Drabbles, and a History**  
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|  Author: ImperialGirl |  1\. An Indecent Proposal 2\. A Strategic Gambit   
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| Rated: T - English - Adventure/Romance - Published: 05-15-16 - Updated: 05-23-16 | id:11948926  
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Mitth'raw'nurodo had never deliberately run from anything that he could recall. Tactical retreats, yes. But fleeing a situation regardless of the consequences? That was irrational and humiliating, and he would not engage in it now. Which was the only reason he was standing before the door to the home of Lady Reli'set'harana, Councilor of the Second Family, and not finding urgent business on the far side of the galactic rim. Otherwise, not all the humiliation it would cause his trial-father, not all the damage it might do to his career, nor how much an ingrate it would have made him, would have kept him there.

"It's a pointless, degrading archaism," he had said to his brother the day before. He would never call his conversations with Thrass venting. He simply needed a sounding board that would listen, and comprehend his position better than their adoptive family, and who was not a subordinate in his chain of command somehow. The number of people who met those qualifications was dwindling rapidly. "I should not be offered up as a ritual sacrifice and she should not be harassed by people she has never met."

"It's part of politics." Thrass was not a trial-son. He would return to the ranks of the commoners on retirement. Marry, or not, as he chose. Thrawn rather suspected not. "She not only has to secure alliances, but make sure she eventually produces an heir to her council seat. Otherwise it falls to Rael'or'kadre or his offspring, and I doubt even his own sister fails to see the danger there. As for you–"

"I have duties to a family that has chosen to honor me with elevation," Thrawn interrupted. "My duty is to excel at the tasks which inspired the elevation. Not to act as a bargaining chip and a . . . breeding animal."

"I've seen Lady Reli'set'harana. I think she'd suit even your exacting tastes."

Thrawn had not replied to that. This was not a question of a partner physically suitable for a brief, recreational release of baser needs. Though he disagreed with his brother that his standards even there unreasonable–that she had to have brains worthy of the name, in addition to sufficient physical attractiveness, even for a brief liaison between cadets or crewmates, had always seemed eminently sensible to him. _This_ was a matter of being tied, politically, personally, and at least for appearances' sake physically, to someone for decades. Potentially their entire lives.

He didn't doubt Thrass's assessment. It was not a question whether she was beautiful, though brains were another matter and not a trait he often associated with the highest-born. It was the absurd necessity of having to do this at all. But then, if and when the trial ended, and he was Family, he would have to marry then. And she . . . Thrass was correct there, too. Her brother, as second-born, was pursuing a military career, and nothing thus far suggested it would be a grand success, let alone that if necessary he would be a suitable High Councilor. Unless _he_ were to make a staggering leap in marriage, any children he produced would only be an improvement with careful, extensive management. Reli'set'harana needed to make a suitable match, and as Second Family, she would likely have been inundated with overtures the instant it was appropriate after her father died.

So why was he, trial-son of the Eighth Family, the one who'd been summoned to meet her?

The retainer who admitted him left him to wait in the entrance hall, which was surprisingly plain to his eye. There was a series of niches, and he realized they contained funerary stele, ancestors going back generations, their accomplishments etched on the smooth stone in the most elegant form of the old script. One still had small oil lamps lit to either side and the remains of a cone of incense smoldering before it. A cursory examination confirmed his assumption that this was Terl'an'harana, the Lady's father and former High Councilor of the Second Family. His list of accomplishments was impressive, if abbreviated: the military academy, a pilot with several engagements to his name, a mastery in linguistics, assuming the seat of the Second High Family on the Council, all impressive, but terminated abruptly. Thrawn was somewhat familiar with the circumstances of the accident–a flyer, the Councilor's personal craft, a freak collision, no evidence of tampering or other deliberate action, and yet he was dead and his eldest daughter ascended, undoubtedly years before she had expected to.

Thrawn had considered and dismissed the obvious possibility, that she had opted to hasten her elevation by escorting her father into the proverbial afterlife ahead of schedule. But everything his trial-father had told him, and all publically-available records, suggested that Reli'set'harana had been sincerely devastated by her father's death. She had stepped appropriately into her roles as head of her family and Councilor, but she had taken no visible pleasure in them. She had even gone on a private voyage of mourning, an older custom likely dating from a time when Family fiefdoms were matters of land, not moons and asteroids and planets, and her favored retainer went veiled behind her, a perpetual reminder of mourning. If it was all a sham to cover a political murder, the Lady was carrying the charade to almost-admirable extremes. Given there was no advantage to that, and it in fact created more questioning of her suitability as a Councilor than otherwise there might have been, he thought it was likely sincere. Which meant she was either deeply fond of her father, or weak-willed and afraid.

Some faint sound or slight motion at the corner of his vision alerted him to a new, silent presence. The veiled servant was standing in the far doorway, and Thrawn had the disconcerting sense the faceless retainer had been surveying him for longer than he had realized. The camsilk veil she wore did its job in impressive fashion–he had a vague sense of the planes of a woman's face, but not even a hint of glowing eyes showed through. There was a lock of faded-looking dark hair slipping free, but it was the only hint of any distinctive features the plain robes and veil allowed.

The servant must have been looking at him, because she gestured, silently, to the door behind her, and stepped aside. He had the sensation of eyes being respectfully downcast, but it was a sensation only.

He would not be intimidated by this odd affectation of the Lady's, though. He was Mitth'raw'nuruodo, youngest Commander in recorded memory, and a wraithlike retainer was not something that should concern him. As she had chosen not to speak, he did not, either, and indicated for her to precede him. Not that he expected a trap, but it never hurt to be cautious.

The room she lead him to was a solar, artificial sunlight streaming through the windows from the equally-artificial garden it overlooked. The High Families could afford monuments to artifice like this, and the older the family, the more ornate the display in terms of architecture, and the less in terms of gaudy furnishings. Why waste money and effort on opulent draperies and carpets and gilt when the pretense of sun could serve the same purpose at even greater expense?

There was a table at the far end, and while it had been mostly cleared to allow for a service of chai (suitable for an afternoon meeting) and a few delicacies to be set out, he noticed that there was a data reader set on the chair on the far side, presumably the Lady's seat, as if she'd grown bored waiting. Or, as he was right on time, perhaps she was the sort of person who simply did not enjoy being idle. Or felt she could not afford to be.

More interesting was the artwork spaced at carefully-considered intervals around the solar. There were one or two of the expected ancestor portraits, but for the most part, they were flat panels and sculpted works, some which seemed very old and others of surprisingly-recent vintage, and some which were, astonishingly, off-world works by races ruled by the Ascendancy. He considered that they might be trophies, taken as part of a military action, but then he recognized the panel by the Bibracti artist Vercasstorannix, one of the abstract works which used the Bibracti's unique pigments to create a rippling impression of the auroras that were a regular feature of their world's atmosphere. A popular subject, but Vercasstorannix's use of the crystalline minerals that gave Bibracti paints their almost three-dimensional quality was virtuoso, creating depth and movement some races found literally dizzying to contemplate. This was an original work, and a large one, which meant not only rare, but expensive to an extreme he found a small, unpleasant part of him envied. Someone-the lady, or her father–clearly preferred actual art to showing off how long their family had been collecting pictures of ancestors and screens celebrating their accomplishments.

A smaller piece, a sculptural made from some milky-colored, smooth material that curled and branched in organic, swirling curves so inviting he had to check himself from tracing a finger along the surface, was sitting on a small altar-like shelf in a niche behind the table. The spot was normally reserved for the family's most prestigious ancestor portrait and he wondered at the choice. Once again, nearly of their own volition, his fingers hovered over the smooth, inviting surface, and he chided himself for the childish temptation. More so for the envy he felt at the thought of being able to own such a variety of pieces, look at them daily, contemplate any aspect of the work at any time he chose . . . .

"That one is meant to be touched," said a soft voice from near the door. "So don't feel you have to restrain yourself."

Thrawn did restrain the instinctive twitch of surprise, and turned around. His first impression was that Thrass had been correct. Aesthetically, at least, he could find nothing about Lady Reli'set'harana that he, or any sane male with eyes to see with, would reasonably object to. She was tall, but not excessively so–the top of her head would come just above his shoulder. Trim, but not the hyper-slender build some aristos strove for, and definitely not frail. Her features were fine-boned, with a high forehead and wide eyes that, as all their people's did, glowed red, but he thought there was a slight crinkling at the corners that betrayed a bit more amusement than the serene smile curving her lips warranted. He had read of hair as a crowning glory and that was clearly true for the Lady–hers was deeply dark, with only the slightest shimmer of cobalt where the light touched it. It was pulled back, hanging in a thick cascade bound near the ends into a style more suited for a young girl than an ascended Councilor and head of her Family. Then it occurred to him it was also a suitable style for mourning. The soft pale green robe she wore had smaller, more practical sleeves than was the fashion, and delicate embroidery in an abstract pattern done in almost the same shade as the fabric. He noted the robe and the broad, but not excessively ornate, sash that belted it were trimmed with white, sewn on with harshly-contrasting black thread. Mourning bands.

Her hands were folded before her, but he saw one fingertip absently tracing the white on her cuff, and he decided that he had been correct–the seemingly-excessive mourning was not affectation. And, judging by the spark of . . . pride? Intelligence? Amusement? He couldn't yet say what he saw in her eyes, but he was certain it wasn't weakness. So she grieved for her father, not pro forma but out of genuine feeling. And still, here they were.

"If these are your pieces, Aristocra, then you have a fascinating taste in art." He stepped back from the shelf and turned to her, making a respectful bow appropriate to her rank.

"Some are. Some are–were–my father's." She moved closer, and there was no affection in her walk, either, no pretext of weakness with tiny steps or constrained motion. Graceful, but not delicately so. "This one is the first one I chose for myself–a name-day present from Father last year." She did not allow any emotion into her voice, he noted admiringly, but for an instant her eyes lowered and she traced a finger across the smooth curves of the sculp. "It's ancient bone, from one of the creatures that walked our world before we, or the ice, came," she said conversationally. Her fingers played across the ivory-colored branches, clearly seeking familiar paths. "The artist said the tactile element is meant to change it and therefore it should be touched as part of the viewing experience. He didn't say why, of course, but it is a reminder, I think, that one day the ice will retreat, and we will all be bones worn away by its touch. Even the land itself with be scraped clean."

Thrawn couldn't resist and ran a far more analytic finger across one of the branches. "You don't think it more likely a reminder that _this_ poor creature was too foolish to adapt, while _we_ carved out a new mode of survival?" He didn't think that was what the artist had intended, but it would be a far more expected theme of a work by one of their own people. Certainly the first any High Family would think of.

"I'm sure whatever this animal was, it thought it was the pinnacle of evolution, too." She smiled and it had an edge to it he might almost have called sly. "So. You are the famous Commander Mitth'raw'nurodo. You're taller than I expected." She tilted her head back, studying him with a frank curiosity he had not expected from one of the most nobly-born of their people he was ever likely to meet. "And I hadn't realized you had an interest in art."

"I would not expect a member of the High Council to know much about me at all." He wasn't falsely modest; he was the youngest commander in the Defense Force and the youngest to attain that rank in at least living memory. She would know of him from that. But he certainly did not expect her to know what he looked like, or about any interests he might have beyond his professional duties. "But yes, I find art to be a fascinating insight into the minds of its creators. Frequently useful, as well."

She tilted her head, the glowing gaze narrowing just a bit as she studied him not unlike how he had studied the artwork a moment before. Finally, she said, "Please, Commander, be seated."

He took the low chair on the side of the table towards the door, shaking off an uneasy feeling about having his back to the door. The Lady settled gracefully into the seat opposite him, and he noticed with some surprise that her chair was the same height as his. She apparently did not set herself above the lower Families, literally or figuratively. Or low-born trial sons of those families. She took the pot resting on the small warming stone and delicately poured a dark liquid with a spicy, pungent scent into one of the small handleless cups (mismatched and hand-painted, of course, as was traditional.) Lifting it gracefully, she held it out to him, and he took it, ignoring the heat warming through the thin porcelain that threatened to burn his fingertips. Before filling her own cup, she waited for him to take the requisite first sip. "Is the chai to your taste?"

The question was traditional as well, and he gave the appropriate response. "It is excellent, thank you." She nodded, though it was not as if she could have done much had he said it was terrible, and filled her own. She ignored the small dish of delicate but likely half-tasteless sweets, meant to cut the sharp taste of the chai, and he did as well.

After a cursory sip, she set her cup down, and looked directly at him. "May I speak frankly, Commander?"

He blinked. This was not part of the normal procedure for these sorts of things as he had ever understood them. "You are a member of the High Council. Strictly speaking, you may speak to me however you wish."

"Good. You're blunt, too." She leaned forward. "I don't especially want to marry. I'm aware I'll have to, at some point, but it was not a priority. The other Families seem to disagree. Including the Eighth, which is why you're here."

"If we are speaking frankly, Councilor, I was extremely surprised when my trial-father informed me you had written to suggest I present myself." He took another sip of his drink, noting the hints of exotic spices beneath the tang of the brew. "I must assume that you have received overtures from much higher-placed families than the Eighth, and blood family."

"Many of those blood-sons, two or three generations prior, were trial-family themselves," she observed mildly, "even if you would probably have to subject them to torture to force the admission. Even my own family has ancestors who were raised from the lower orders by virtue of talent. Blood will out, Commander, and foolish inbreeding makes blood thin. If I have to contribute to my family, I don't intend to weaken it.

"A sensible position." She _did_ have a brain in her head, if she was being honest, and something in the direct gaze told him she was. "But you _are_ Second. I think even my father was surprised that you replied to him quite so quickly."

"It was the only letter that struck me as unusual and as such the only one I answered," she said bluntly. "And, to be honest, the thought alone horrified and insulted my mother, which was appealing itself. My brother objected as well. But then, Mother is Fourth, and raised my brother much the same. They are notoriously worried about dignity. And," she added, raising her cup to her lips, "I suspect my brother is jealous and resentful. You are scarcely older than him, and your star in the Defense Force is on the rise. Rapidly."

Thrawn was not unfamiliar with the reaction. "Yet you chose to meet me in spite of that."

"Because of it." Her voice remained calm and even. "As I said, I have no desire to weaken my family further by breeding with the sort of aristocratic idiot my mother considers reasonable or someone my brother thought would sufficiently cow me." Something in the set of her lip made Thrawn feel an odd sort of pity for anyone who tried. "And I confess, the opportunity to meet you was too good to pass up."

Now he was genuinely intrigued in spite of himself. "You wished to meet me?"

"You're exceptional. Commander." She had relaxed a bit, consciously or otherwise, and was leaning a bit on her elbow. It was a reminder she was weeks or months at most his senior, not old at all by their people's standards. "You are someone worth knowing politically and personally. And," she sighed, studying the chai swirling in her cup, "if I have to entertain suitors, I might as well start with the one I suspect I will least resent. You clearly have a brain you use for something besides keeping your skull from collapsing and after spending as much time as I must on politics, I can't explain how refreshing that is."

In spite of himself, Thrawn smiled. He had been told it was not a reassuring or pleasant expression, but her gaze never wavered from him. "Yet you do not anticipate _finishing_ your entertainment of suitors with me. Remarkably perceptive."

"Do you especially want to be married, Commander?" She was disturbingly frank. Disturbing, or refreshing? "While I acknowledge the necessity, I don't wish to be."

Either way, it prompted an urge to reciprocate. "I had not given the question any serious consideration. I recognize that for the benefit of my career, it would probably be advisable. I suspect that was what my trial-family was thinking in making an offer to you. They did not, to be honest, expect you to express even polite interest."

"But nothing ventured, nothing gained? I can respect that." She tapped her fingertips against the rim of her cup. "You've gone along with it. So there is no one you've made any promises to, or in whom you have an emotional interest that would supercede a political alliance?"

"None." That he could answer easily and honestly. "I gather you have no one you hold in that regard, either?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You _are_ bold," she said, half to herself. "If you're a halfway-decent _wei-jio_ player I may have to revise my own stance on the desirability of marriage."

As usual, basic honesty and a certain degree of pride prevented him from false modesty. "I am considerably better than halfway decent," and while it _was_ ego, it was also the truth. "You play?"

For the first time, the polite facade slipped completely, and he saw a young, pretty woman genuinely interested in the conversation, not calculating or planning. "Since I was old enough I could be trusted not to swallow the gaming tokens. Father and I used to play all the time. I can still remember the first time I beat him." The wistful, distant expression told him all he needed to know about the sincerity of those mourning bands. "We never finished our last game," and she gestured to a low side table.

The gaming board, eight-sided as was normal, was made of finely-polished wood surrounding a smooth stone top, which had the requisite grid and slight indentations in each square to hold the small gaming discs in place. The double-sided tokens were smooth polished gems, one side a glossy onxy and the opposite a pearlescent white milkstone, fused together so finely the seam was almost invisible, all of which would have been just as suited to being set in jewelry as to a game board. The two master stones were gold and silver, as was typical, and by the gleam of the metal they were real enough, too. Thrawn had an unpleasant twinge at the memory of the set he had learned on, painted black and white stones and heavy steel and polished brass, but he firmly quashed the unreasoning and undeserved envy.

Instead, he studied the layout of the game. The player who had been the gold master currently was in a defensive posture, the black pawn stones arrayed around a safe corner to defend it from being trapped. The silver master had two of the black tokens threatening a siege, but controlled more of the game board with their white pieces. Silver seemed deceptively open, but as he studied the pieces, backtracked through the series of plays that must have lead to the current positions, he realized that for gold to make an assault would lead, in most cases, to silver converting more tokens and forcing the gold to either relocate or risk an unbreakable siege. Still, if gold were willing to be daring, and could spot the elegant but somewhat sideways planning of silver . . . .

He looked up. "You were playing as silver?"

Now, for an instant, she seemed genuinely nonplused. "I was. I would finish the game, but my mother and sister have no interest and my brother refuses to play me." There was no attempt to hide the pride in her smile. "He doesn't like losing, and he can't beat me."

Thrawn nodded, but part of his mind was playing out the series of steps that would be required to turn gold's defensive posture into a successful offense. "A pity your father was unable to conclude the game," he said finally, once he was satisfied with the mental strategy. "He would have beaten you in seven moves."

"Pardon?" She set aside her cup completely and joined him by the game board, sinking down to kneel in what he assumed was her typical playing posture. Almost without thinking, he sat opposite. The Lady was studying the game layout with a puzzled but detached expression and he felt an unfamiliar, warm feeling at how she was sincerely analyzing his conclusion and accepting or rejecting it. "Perhaps . . . ." she said finally, one finger tapping at her lip. "I think you may be mistaken about how I would respond to what you have in mind, though."

"Would you care to play it out?" He realized he was hoping she'd agree. He and Thrass rarely had the time or inclination for games any more, and the same chain of command difficulties that often limited his conversational options also applied to competitive games.

"Yes, I want to see where you're going with this," and she gestured to the board. "It was gold's move." If she felt anything about disturbing the remains of her father's last game, it did not show on her face or sound in her voice.

"I can see that," and he kept his tone neutral. "I can't imagine he would have left this open." Reaching out, he moved one of the black pieces and flipped the white tokens the resulting capture converted.

She bit thoughtfully at her lip. "Likely not," she said absently. Then instead of what he'd expected (the largest-available conversion, which would have left his master at risk but him still with a few strategically-placed black) she flipped a corner stone and the resulting diagonal line from black to white. Thrawn realized, even as he was revising his planned strategy, this might require more than seven moves.

It took ten, but he did prevail. Instead of any outburst of temper or even mild annoyance, the Lady sat back on her heels, studying the board from several angles as if assuring herself she had no options–no sufficient conversions and no way of breaking her besieged master token free. "Well. More interesting than I'd hoped." She looked up thoughtfully, and began to reset the board. "That wasn't precisely fair to you, starting from someone else's game. Shall we play another?"

"Warfare is hardly fair, and _wei-jio_ is based on war," he said, but he didn't rise, instead helping to reset the pieces. Nor did he point out that, fair to him or not, he had still won."Which is why I'm surprised, my lady. At your interest, and your aptitude."

She smiled thinly, and he suddenly understood what people meant about his smile. "Politics is war, Commander. We practice the same arts, but yours at least has honest blood." She examined the starting positions, and gently turned a single stone.

That game, to Thrawn's minor astonishment, they played to a draw, a genuine impasse rare enough in _wei-jio_ it was almost considered a strategic goal in its own right. The next game he won, barely, but with far fewer tokens remaining than he would have found comfortable had this been actual war and these real resources. And on the fourth game, just when he was certain he was three moves from another victory, she smiled brightly and turned a stone.

The ripple of black becoming white shimmered across the game board, and he blinked, quickly revising his intended move, but it didn't matter, as when he made it, she moved immediately, this time converting only six stones, but vital ones. He considered his options, the gold master pinned neatly in a corner, and his few remaining tokens blocked in positions where they were of no use. "I believe you have me, my lady," he said finally. "Of the moves available, I had not anticipated your choosing that one."

"You rank the possibilities for your opponent as you play," she said, hands folded serenely in her lap. "Act on those you think almost certainties, disregard those you believe are practically impossible, and respond to the former. I realized that, and opted for the impossible. It won't work again, but this time, it was enough."

As she spoke, she picked up a savory pastry from the small selection set beside the game board, and then frowned at the food as if noticing it for the first time. Thrawn, also for the first time, saw the new platter beside them, slightly heavier foods meant for a later meal, cups of mulled drinks at their elbows also more suited to an evening than a polite meeting over chai. "Have we really been playing so long?"

The Lady seemed equally puzzled, but then turned and looked towards a discreet screen position near the door. "Aleishia?"

The veiled servant stepped from concealment behind it. "The chai has gone cold, and I thought that you would prefer something more substantial than sweetmeats," she said.

Thrawn started at the voice. The accent was alien, despite a creditable effort at their language, an exotic lilt tinging all the words and the rhythm not quite right. But what species resembled them so strongly mere camsilk and robes could act as an ideal disguise? Even as he had the thought, it seemed to sideslip away as if under gentle pressure to be less interesting, and he clung to it, forcing it to a mental file for examination later, after further evidence could be examined.

Then it truly was superceded by the far more pressing and surprising fact that he wanted there to be a later, more opportunities to examine this conundrum about the Lady. And others. And to play her again, knowing this time how she'd used his reasoning against him.

Hunger nagged at him, and he tried one of the crisp pastries. The rich, salty filling was precisely the right balance with the crispy texture of the shell. After a polite sip of the mulled drink, a fruit beverage with just enough bite he knew it was fermented, he said, "I'm afraid we've played the afternoon away."

"The most productive use of my time in ages," she said. "Not yours, I suspect, but at times your role, Commander, is more consequential than mine."

"I find that hard to believe." She was looking at him strangely, and he realized that even though the _wei-jio_ game was over, it was in fact, still his move. "And rarely is my role quite so pleasant. Strategic exercises are more pleasant without blood."

"I can imagine," she said, still with that odd expression. There was a brief pause, and then she said, "I did enjoy the bloodless carnage, even when I was the principle victim. It's . . . ." She paused, then continued, "it's pleasant to have someone to challenge me again."

There it was. The volley was officially to him. While she could have dismissed him after this meeting, most effectively by simply asking to end the conversation, that was as clear as she was likely to be about her opinion. She would not mind if now they had completed the introductions, they could, if he wished, move into the next stage of things. A genuine courtship. But he could, if he wished, walk away from the negotiations now without embarrassment or shame. There would be no opprobrium if this were the end of it. To go farther, though, increased the risk that if it did end, there would then be public scorn. He could, if he wished, end it here.

Thrawn realized that he did not wish it. In spite of it all, he did not want this to stop now.

The Lady rose, and he followed suit. "I am afraid I must go now," he said, properly pro forma again. "I have taken up much of your day, and I have my own duties to attend to." He paused, and thought there was a flicker of . . . some emotion . . . in her face, but he continued, "If I may, I would like to continue our conversation soon."

For one, brief, unguarded moment, he saw what he thought was relief in her expression. "I would very much like that as well. Please, call whenever you like and are able. I understand the restrictions of duty and I have my own, but . . . ." The smile was almost impish. "If you promise we may play another game of _wei-jio_ , I will make time in my schedule whenever you like."

Thrawn nodded. "That would please me as well." There was another awkward pause, and on an impulse he did not quite understand, he took her hand and bowed over it. "It has been my honor, Lady Reli'set'harana."

"Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo," she acknowledged, and then, as the servant moved forward to escort him out and he withdrew his hand, she stepped back to the desk, looking at the game board, the abandoned chai service, the forgotten data reader.

As he reached the door, a pace behind the veiled retainer, she said, "Commander?"

He turned. "My lady?"

She drew in a breath. "Lisetha. My name is Lisetha."

Thrawn blinked, for once genuinely off his guard. He considered for a moment. "Lisetha." An elegant, graceful name, suited to a noble in her private home, and far too forward, but strangely right. "I would be honored if you called me by core name."

There was, he thought, a hint of some pleasant kind of color in her cheeks. "Thrawn. Yes, I think it does suit you very well." He made a mental note to ask her what she meant by that later, but there was nothing to be done now other than bow, and follow the servant away.


	3. Move and Counter-Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aleishia learns more about her apprentice, a cadet has a scare, and Thrass knows more about his brother than his brother does.

"I thought you didn't want to get married."

Aleishia spoke Basic, and she felt the slight hesitation that meant Lisetha was still having to translate in her head back and forth between languages. "I don't. But as I have to, it might as well be someone I can tolerate, and who isn't going to make demands I'm not prepared to meet." She brought her lightsaber around in a smooth arc, deflecting the training drone's bolt of energy to bounce harmlessly off into the walls of the gymnasium. "Of all the candidates thrown at me, Mitth'raw'nuruodo–Thrawn–was the only one that might have potential there."

Aleishia watched her apprentice ( _her_ apprentice, and that thought sometimes boggled her mind) bring the saber back to ready, superficially serene but glittering in the Force like sun on snow. It had been frightening, really, when Aleishia had come to in the rubble of that last, horrible fight, knowing that Mihall was gone, her baby was gone, she was alone and injured and stunned she wasn't dead. Then someone was clearing away the debris, ordering her onto a stretcher, staring at what to her were shockingly alien features, and all the while this savior's sense in the Force had glowed like a reactor core gone critical. Had Lisetha been born in the Republic, the Jedi would have found her in a heartbeat, and she'd have been whisked to the Temple before her parents could even name her.

And ironically, she would have been spared her current dilemma, the very opposite of the problem that had driven Aleishia and Mihall to leave the Jedi Order.

"It seems a shame, to marry without love." As she spoke, she reached out with the Force and activated the second remote.

"I'm going to do that anyway." Lisetha was already reacting, swirling around in a blur of graceful motion and deflecting the bolts from the new attacker. "I can't imagine you have _no_ races in your Republic where marriage is ever a political necessity. I _have_ to have an heir eventually, unless I want the Council seat to pass to my brother. If Thrawn doesn't marry, either the Eighth will drop his trial and he will revert to being a commoner, or his military career may very well suffer and he'll reflect badly on them. He'd be showing no interest in his own patrimony and it would look disloyal to the family that elevated him. What either of us want personally is beside the point."

"And so you think, since you both of you are so disinterested in marriage for its own sake, he'd be the potential mate least likely to interfere with your life?" She guided one of the remotes farther out, and changed the setting to a rapid fire. The bolts were powered well down, and would sting her apprentice's dignity more than do any real harm if and when they connected, and she was getting too confident with the lighter setting. She had a lovely style, though, switching between a one- and two-handed grip with aplomb. There was, Aleishia thought, something vaguely reminiscent of Master Dooku and his pupils in her style, which was strange as Aleishia herself had never been drawn to the classical forms of the art. Then again, the Chiss were a strange, tradition-bound people, as Lisetha's current problem illustrated, and perhaps the innate respect for tradition and classic forms of other disciplines simply translated here.

"Where Thrawn and I differ from so many of the rest of our people is we both seem aware of the absurdity of the situation. If we can agree on that, we can probably come to an arrangement that satisfies convention without it shackling either of us." Lisetha pivoted again, the gold blade twirling in a blur of motion and deflecting two more shots. "The rest of the requests I've received vary from unacceptably foolish to unacceptably arrogant, with a descending correlation between rank and that latter category. Thrawn fits neither, and he has no illusions about my rank relative to his. He just doesn't seem to care."

"And you perhaps find him more tolerable company than you might the others?" Aleishia had spent most of the meeting her apprentice and her . . . it felt absurd to call Mitth'raw'nuruodo a suitor, reluctant or otherwise . . . seated quietly behind the screen, listening and observing. His sense had been more that of a man contemplating a military strategy, or a suspicious animal being guided into a trap. Until, at least, they had settled into playing that absurdly-complex game Lisetha loved so much. At that point, his nerves had vanished, replaced by a mind that reminded Aleishia of nothing so much as the complex telepathic puzzles she'd been raised to 'play' with at the Temple. Except, of course, those had solutions. His mind was a mirror-maze, a calculating computer, a filing system full of information cataloged in unfathomable ways, and when he applied it, it worked in such a strange freeform system trying to even gently cloud it and dampen his curiosity about her odd accent had been like dancing on the edge of a black hole cluster. The thought of trying more complex manipulations sent a shiver down her spine. "Might even . . . enjoy it a bit?"

Lisetha turned to look at her, and then gave a very undignified yelp as one of the remotes fired a stinging bolt into her unprotected back. She spun, reaching out with the Force, and grabbed the remote in a firm grip, deactivating it. "I found his company refreshing," she said, and there was a sense of evasion. Aleishia didn't think it was directed at her. In fact, she had suspected from the moment the two had sat down at the _wei-jio_ board that her apprentice's greatest danger in this entire situation was not politics or her family's attitude but herself. Lisetha, whether she admitted it to herself or not, liked this Thrawn. It might just have been having a proper opponent again, but combined with the strange frisson of emotion she'd felt from Lisetha when Thrawn took her hand, there was more to it than her apprentice was ready to admit. "He is an intriguing man."

"Is that the word?" She arched her eyebrows, and tried not to think how Master Yoda would have responded to prevarication on that level. "Not attractive?"

"What are you always saying? A Jedi knows no passion? Well, then, our people are perfectly suited to being Jedi, as I'm not a slave to my emotions." She did pause, pursing her lips. "He isn't unpleasant to look at, though. I suppose that's something."

Aleishia was decidedly not sure she would have gone so far. True, Thrawn was tall without being spindly, and he moved with the economy and poise of someone not unfamiliar with physical combat. But there was something . . .sharp, almost hawkish about his features. And while all the Chiss she'd encountered so far, Lisetha included, spent much of their energy schooling their features to betray no emotion, Thrawn took it to such an extreme he might as well have been carved of duracrete. That brief glimpse into his mind, though, suggested there was a great deal indeed going on behind that stone mask. Whether that included a temperament that would compliment, rather than antagonize, Lisetha's rather impulsive nature remained to be seen.

All she said aloud was, "He certainly does not seem like most of the other members of your species I've encountered."

Lisetha lowered her saber, and deactivated it. "You don't like him, do you?"

"I can't say whether I like or dislike him. He unnerves me. As much as I can read him, I don't sense a hostile or dangerous nature-dangerous to you, I mean. I suspect he could be quite a dangerous person in the right circumstances. But that is not innately bad."

"Considering how dangerous you can be?" Lisetha smiled that thin, amused smile that seemed to be as much as most of her people would allow when it came to expression. "Or me, for that matter."

"Very true." She suspected that Lisetha might be most dangerous of all when she was seated in her Council chair, and wondered if this Thrawn had realized that. "You weren't serious when you told Councilor . . .Elor'kel'ihnar from the Sixth Family that you would lead an investigation into the declining ore production in the Stiggond Belt yourself, complete with armed ships and guards answerable to you?"

"Entirely? No. I don't have time to deal with something along those lines personally. The fact that I could, however, and have enough other councilors who'd back my decision, certainly put the fear of the ancestors into him." There was that tiny, almost-imperceptible tightening of the smile that gave it an edge Aleishia felt would make a Master's blood run cold. "And there is where not only would having the Eighth a bit more closely allied would pay off, but so would marrying the brother of a newly-minted Syndic. Mitth'ras'safis is nearly as admired as his younger brother and currently has more resources at his disposal. Being able to call with confidence on that kind of influence might make many issues flow far more smoothly. If that ore production isn't falling off, and is going where I suspect it is, a Syndic's battle group would be enough of a scare to put anyone off further such dealings. And the rest of the Council will have no choice but to back it."

"Assuming you don't offend all the families whose offers you've rejected without consideration," Aleishia felt obliged to remark.

"They may be as offended as they like. Only the First could make it really sting." Lisetha, without looking, reactivated her saber and deflected a bolt from the still-active remote. "And, of course, you're assuming I've settled my mind on Thrawn already. And remember, he can always withdraw, though if he'd been planning to the end of our first meeting would have been the time."

Aleishia shook her head, trying to hide her amusement and knowing by Chiss standards she was failing. Lisetha indulged in political calculations with the same relish she suspected Thrawn embraced his military campaigns. It was in some ways comforting that the world's political organization limited the level of damage two such personalities allied could potentially do, or she suspected neither would survive a fortnight after finalizing their vows. That kind of alliance had to terrify some of their hidebound fellows to no end.

She sensed the presence approaching and reached for her camsilk veil, pulling it back into place while Lisetha concealed the deactivated remotes and her lightsaber vanished up the sleeve of her loose-fitting exercise tunic. Aleishia returned her own to its concealed hook on the inner sash of her robe and faded into the background, literally and in the Force, to watch. Lisetha had clearly sensed the identity of the approaching person, as her expression set into a cool, smooth mask and she turned, hair wisping loose from its braid and her cheeks still just lightly colored from her exertion but still every inch the Lady of the Second Family.

"Lisetha!" The voice was not pleasant, despite being what Aleishia knew was a perfect, noble-class accent. She sighed inwardly and reminded herself that all life was part of the Force, no matter how obnoxious it might seem. "Lisetha, where are you?"

Lisetha closed her eyes briefly and Aleishia could feel her apprentice drawing on the Force for patience. "I am in here, Lorkad. There are ways other than shouting to find me."

The camsilk hid her features completely, but the veil allowed her a perfect view of everything beyond it. But she already knew what the newcomer looked like. The man who appeared in the doorway, dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Defense Force, took as strongly after Seleka as Lisetha took after their father. Lorkad was about as tall as his sister, of a sturdier frame, and his features were broader and harsher, taking after the Fourth Family to which he principally belonged. His narrow eyes glinted as he took in his sister's casual dress and disordered hair, but as she was, in fact, mistress of the family and his social superior, he only said, "Is the rumor true?"

"What rumor is that?" Even dressed for exercise, Lisetha could turn on the aloof, cool High Councilor in a heartbeat. "There are so many in the world these days, you'll have to be more specific."

"Don't be coy, sister. The rumor that you are entertaining that jumped-up overachieving commoner the Eighth Family is pleased to call a trial-son. That you are, if some in the Defense Force are to be believed, planning to _marry_ him?"

Lisetha raised an eyebrow. "As I find it exceedingly difficult to believe Mitth'raw'nuruodo has said anything to anyone except possibly his brother, whom I might remind you is even more your superior officer than he is, who precisely is spreading these rumors?"

"You don't even bother to deny it?" Lorkad completely ignored her question.

"I responded to the most interesting of the oh-so-polite overtures I received from several Families," Lisetha said, and Aleishia suspected her apprentice's weary tone wasn't entirely feigned. "I found Thrawn's company refreshing, after all my time with family during mourning, and he indicated he wished to continue the process. I have no objection to a potential husband who's remarkably accomplished for his age, and the Eighth Family is as respectable as any."

Aleishia had never noticed any of the Chiss really flushing with rage the way human skin did, but Lorkad was certainly doing a fair impression. "Thrawn?" He spit the name like an epithet. "You use his core name? You don't allow him to use yours?"

"As it's my place by virtue of rank to initiate such address, of course I do." There was something . . . off about Lisetha's tone, Aleishia thought. Not irritation, not anger, but . . . Lisetha turned away as if reaching for the carafe of water and looked directly at her "servant", a quick and very deadly smile briefly curving her lips and it took Padawan-in-training self-control to choke down a laugh. "As I said," she continued, her face impassive again as she turned back to her brother, "I find him refreshing. And he's an excellent _wei-jio_ player."

Lorkad's face darkened, and Aleishia could feel the temper brewing beneath the proper, controlled mask. He was not, after all, an excellent player. She wondered what he'd think if he knew the 'jumped-up overachiever' had beaten his sister twice, a feat Lorkad had failed to accomplish even once. "All very well, but you cannot possibly continue this perverse amusement of yours. He isn't even confirmed in his adoption, and there isn't a noble-born officer of any name who doesn't think he's arrogant, overconfident, and destined for a great fall when that perverse luck finally fails him."

Lisetha's brows arched delicately. "Arrogance? I didn't notice any. And perhaps it's only my poor skill at the game, but I don't think he beat me at _wei-jio_ by luck." She took a sip of water, hiding another smirk. "And I'm more curious what the officers of no name think of him."

"This is revolting." Lorkad paced, clearly looking for something appropriate on which to vent his anger as even he wasn't stupid enough to strike at his sister. Aleishia sank deeper into the Force, projecting an aura of go-away even a mind as dense as his couldn't miss. "If you must go slumming to amuse yourself before settling on a mate, fine. But a formal courtship is not something to be wasted on baseborn filth who happen to be good at a board game!"

Lisetha went still, and Aleishia thought that if Lorkad weren't quite such a spoiled brat, he might have the sense to know when he'd gone too far. But if Lenhar had indulged his eldest daughter, Seleka had spoiled her son. Listhea drew herself up and went very still. But she only said, "Perhaps I ought to inform the other Councilors that, as my own interests are proceeding so well, my younger brother is in need of a wife. Clearly, you don't have enough to occupy your time in the Defense Force."

"Even if he were acceptably born, which he wasn't," Lorkad said, but Aleishia could hear the barely-swallowed temper threatening to choke him., "to have him call on you, meet you in private, and now he has little cadet spies from his cadre of admirers loitering around . . . probably spying on you."

"What?" Lisetha turned and Aleishia was already moving, headed for the entry hall, which meant she didn't hear her apprentice's questioning her brother, but there was a bit more to the flare of temper she felt than just the usual annoyance. Hurt? No. Righteous indignation, denial, denial of–Lisetha was definitely not admitting what sort of anger she was feeling, and on Thrawn's behalf. Aleishia knew her expression was hidden by the camsilk, so she didn't bother suppressing a smirk.

The hall servant looked moderately puzzled at her appearance, but she ignored him and went to the door. Standing outside, with the physical wavering from foot to foot and the mental wavering of someone who had received conflicting orders and was not sure which authority to obey, was a boy perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old dressed in the crisp, correct uniform of a military cadet. He held a small flat box gripped tightly in his gloved hands and looked up anxiously as the door opened. Behind the camsilk, Aleishia blinked at the incongruity of the too-young face and the quick, proper way he snapped to perfect attention. So young, too young . . . .

_And how old were_ you _,_ that voice in her head that sounded so like Mihall whispered, _when Master Yoda first put a lightsaber in your hand and taught you to wield it?_

_Fair enough_ , she told the ghost.

The boy, gaze darting only once from her to the gruff hall servant and back, said without a waver in his voice, "Cadet Vya'domch, with a message from Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo for the Aristocra Lady Reli'set'harana."

Aleishia turned to look at the servant-Seln, one of Lisetha's oldest retainers, who knew full well that Aleishia's decisions were almost always to be thought of as the Lady's–and nodded silently. The gruff servant hmphed, but he said, "This way, boy. She'll take you to the Lady." As they turned, the cadet following obediently behind, Aleishia heard Seln murmur "Baseborn officers, now his little toy soldiers . . . what is my Lady thinking of?" Aleishia kept her own counsel.

When she and the cadet approached the room, she heard the sound of heavy pacing. Lisetha was standing more or less where Aleishia had left her, but Lorkad was stalking from the rack of sparring rods to the targets on the far wall, fists clenching and unclenching while his sister remained serenely still, that tiny half smile tugging at her lips.

The cadet froze, his eyes first fixing on the officer, and Aleishia caught the sudden flare of fear. No question who had prompted that earlier sense of conflicting orders. Lisetha clearly felt it too. _Cadet Vya'domch,_ Aleishia sent to her, _from_ him. _No wonder your brother tried to get rid of him._

Lisetha nodded, and once again the she was the cool, aloof High Councilor, but her expression had just the faintest touch of gentleness. "Cadet Vya'domch," she said, and the boy's sense flared with a combination of surprise and admiration at how the Lady mysteriously knew his name without anyone saying a word. "I apologize for the misunderstanding when you arrived. My brother was unaware that I would wish you admitted immediately. He regrets his error." And for certain values of regret, Aleishia thought, that was probably very true. "You have a message for me?"

Vya'domch snapped to attention again, and there was more than blind obedience. Real pride could not be feigned and he was clearly proud to be the chosen messenger for the Commander. In spite of herself, Aleishia gave Thrawn points for earned respect from his subordinates. "Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo sends his compliments, my Lady, and apologizes that duty compels him to decline your kind invitation this week. He hopes you will forgive him for postponing and sends this modest token as a apology. He hopes it suits your tastes." With another click of his heels, he held out the flat box with both hands.

Lisetha took it, and ran her fingers across the smooth top briefly, then worked the small clasp. Her eyes widened, and just for a moment the slight parting of her lips and the soft gasp betrayed far more emotion than was really proper. She lifted out a medallion dangling from a delicate silver chain. A stone, the size and general shape of a _wei-jio_ disk, was set in the center of a swirling, delicate metal filigree. As she held it up to the light, the faceted stone caught and reflected it, the colors shifting through a rainbow. "How lovely," and when she turned it over, the back half of the stone was indeed the darker color, as if it had been taken from a game board even more expensive than hers. "The Commander is very kind. Please, assure him that I will be happy to see him whenever his own duties permit and that I treasure his gift."

There was a soft snort, barely covered, from the direction of Lorkad, but a side-eyed look from his sister kept him silent. The cadet, meanwhile, nodded briskly, obviously happy his message was well-received and by as important a person as the High Councilor of the Second Family to boot. _And_ , Aleishia thought, noting the barely-concealed adolescent admiration in how he looked at the Lady, _maybe a bit of pride that_ his _commander has the regard of such a person?_

As the cadet turned to go, Lisetha, still studying the medallion, said, "Wait." Vya'domch paused expectantly, and Lorkan's brow furrowed. _Aleishia, fetch Seln. The boy will need help. And have my writing box ready on my desk._ "I wish to send a note in return, and a gift of my own." Aleishia could already see from her apprentice's mind what she intended, and was grateful the camsilk hid the surprised expression she couldn't control.

_Refreshing, apprentice? Amusing? A good_ wei-jio _player? Really, now._ But if Lisetha heard the thought, she did not reply, and her expression remained in that strange, sly, not-a-smile.

Thrass was surprised when he entered his brother's quarters (as spartan, almost, as the day they'd been assigned) to find, not a holographic display of the sector the patrol group was being posted to, which was usually the sort of thing Thrawn wanted to discuss. Instead, his younger brother was contemplating a large, flat parcel, and holding an unopened letter written on fine, expensive parchment. Thrass didn't bother looking at the seal; he knew it would be the Second.

"I believe the small token I sent to Lady Reli'set'harana was well-received," and Thrass had the rare pleasure of hearing his brother sound faintly bemused. "She sent the cadet with a reply, and her retainer with a package. As I understand, a gift from my end was expected at this stage of the proceedings, but one in return would be more customary after our next meeting."

"True," Thrass said, hoping he could contain a both inappropriate and un-filial desire to laugh. Only Thrawn could make the process of marriage negotiations sound like a lecture in a first-year course on tactics. "It would seem your lady wishes to accelerate the process."

"As we seem to have the same reticence, she likely shares my desire to see the situation resolved so it will no longer pressure either of us, especially as we are unlikly to pressure each other." Thrawn was still fingering the letter absently, with no move to read it.

Thrass wasn't as patient. "You haven't read her reply?"

Thrawn looked down as well. "I was waiting to hear your opinion. I'm accustomed to unconventional responses in warfare. Not . . . this." He cracked the seal on the note.

Thrass looked over his shoulder. The Lady had a clear, but somewhat slanted script, as if she liked to write hastily even when indulging in the expense of real paper and ink. _Thrawn,_ and he blinked that she addressed it to his brother by core name _, I was pleased to receive your gift, and I wished to tell you so by my own hand in addition to the message given to Cadet Vya'domch, though I am sure that efficient young man will deliver it as he delivered your token to me, despite an unexpected obstacle presented him. I would offer my own token in return, and hope you will not find me premature or forward in this. Great art is never owned, only kept in trust from one life to the next, and so I pass this piece to you. I observed how you appreciated it, and know you will give it an honored place until it once again passes into new hands. With highest regards,_ and now Thrass was only half-startled that she signed herself only, _Lisetha._

Thrawn didn't say anything. He was clearly rereading the letter again, just the slightest furrow of his brow betraying the intense analysis Thrass knew was going on. Still, he had wanted Thrass's opinion. "Apparently, such a simple trinket, I believe you called it, suited the Lady's tastes perfectly well."

"So it would seem," Thrawn said absently. "Cadet Vya'domch should be given two merit marks, one for his efficiency in delivering my message and Lady Reli'set'harana's reply, and one to counter any demerits given by Lieutenant Rael'or'kadre." He obviously saw Thrass's expression, as he clarified, "The obstacle was undoubtedly Lady Lisetha's brother. I cannot image he approves of anything about the situation."

"No doubt." Thrass debated allowing it to pass, then said, "You had not mentioned the Lady wished to exchange core names quite so soon."

Thrawn blinked, with that pause that meant he was thinking of an appropriate reply because the truth would not be something he thought his listener needed to hear. "It did not seem consequential."

"You're a terrible liar sometimes." Thrass considered the possibilities. That the Lady might have become rapidly infatuated with his brother was improbable, but hardly impossible. Thrawn, for his taciturn nature and rigid control of his temper (mostly because, as Thrass was one of the few to know, when it was unleashed it was fearful indeed), had a strange charisma few were immune to. "I'm sure it was far more important to mention her skill at _wei-jio._ "

"In fact, it was." Thrawn was studied the wrapped parcel now. "Once again, she has made her move more rapidly than I expected." He carefully unfolded the wrapping–light, pure cloth designed to protect something quite delicate. As it fell away, Thrass saw a frame, keeping with the Lady's words about art, and as Thrawn took what he thought was an involuntary step back he saw the rest of the canvas.

Abruptly, he understood the unguarded astonishment that flashed in his brother's eyes. The artwork was an abstract, a dizzying spiral of shimmering crystalline colors against a black background deep as space. "That's Bibracti, isn't it?" he said softly.

Thrawn did not look away from the painting, but for once in his life, Thrass didn't think he was taking the work apart in his mind. "A Vercasstorix," he said quietly, "an original piece. Beyond price. It was hanging in her solar, and of course I admired it. To see one in person is a rare treat. To own one is beyond . . . ." He couldn't finish the thought, a miracle itself.

Thrass looked from his brother to the masterpiece and back again. Thrawn was mesmerized, but not so much that he had dropped the letter still held between thumb and forefinger. It wasn't just that this was artwork beyond anything their family, birth or adoption, had ever owned, and past the wildest dreams of a Commander's pay grade. If the Lady could read minds, she could not possibly have found a gift more likely to endear her to his brother, even against that cold-iron will. That she appreciated it herself said a great deal about her, and why his brother had not precisely changed his tune, but seemed less resentful and resigned after their meeting. With anyone else, the situation would have been painfully clear. It was not so simple, still, but Thrass wondered if either party realized it was no longer quite so complex, either.

Thrass put a hand on Thrawn's shoulder. "Well, brother," he said, and it took the greater part of his self-control to keep the laughter from his voice, "when are you going to present me to my sister-to-be?"


	4. Family Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover just how much of a snake pit a High Family can be, and in which Thrass decides his brother requires judicious application of the clue-by-four to the head.

"Seleka . . . you will have to control your daughter."

Seleka did not even bother pretending she didn't understand her father's meaning. "Reli'set'harana is beyond my ability to control." She jabbed sharply at the sliver of fish on her plate. "She has been since the day her father died."

Ahp'her'ekadre glared at his second-born, the effect not made any less intimidating by the flecks of gray showing in his once-black hair. Pherek was ignoring his own meal, because his appetite had indeed been less of late or out of sheer irritation, Seleka wasn't certain. Lisetha, who now sat on the Council with her maternal grandfather, had expressed concern over his health, but lecturing her father would be about has productive a use of Seleka's time as lecturing her eldest daughter. "Meeting this upstart from the Eighth once, for amusement or curiosity's sake, no one could blame her for. Meeting him more than once, perhaps. But an exchange of gifts? And you know she's written to his family as well."

"Of course I know." Lisetha had not quite rubbed the correspondence in her mother's face, but she made no secret that what she'd claimed was an exercise in curiosity had turned into a courtship proceeding at a dangerous pace. "She claims she enjoys his company and that he plays a good game of _wei-jio._ You know my late husband taught her to love that game, and no one else in the family plays."

"This is not a game, daughter." Pherek sipped from a glass of something clear that was just slightly too viscous to be water. "Do you want the seat of the Second Family, because of your daughter, passing to the offspring of some common slag's by-blow? Gods only know where some of these self-made officers come from. I may not speak to my granddaughter often, but I sit with her on the Council. She is a ruthless, calculating little creature, and she has no dignity. Her temper has been too indulged. She will not be pursing this as a minor amusement. She has plans for this Mitth'raw'nuruodo and likely that Syndic brother of his with him. Thank all the gods and ancestors _that_ one isn't a trial-son and even the Eighth didn't have the gall to offer a merit adoption without that."

"What use could they possibly be?" Seleka had yet to meet the young Commander who looked increasingly like Lisetha's intended mate. Lisetha had not asked her to be present at one of their meetings, and infrequent as those were it was easy to avoid visiting during one. Lorkad knew him distantly, of course, though they had little direct interaction, and he despised the man. Arrogant, colder than a glacier, second only to his brother Mitth'ras'safis in his smug conviction in his own honor and intelligence and less liked anyway because of his far-less-obliging nature. Seleka did not believe this Thrawn could be quite as bad as Lorkad thought-she was not completely oblivious to her son's failings and knew he loathed new men like that because by comparison, his lack of talent and more critically lack of effort became obvious. Had he been born in similarly base circumstances, he would never have risen so far, so fast. But he was still her son, and if her brother were to fail to produce an adequate heir, the Fourth Family's seat could be his.

And of course, should Lisetha lack offspring fit to succeed her, Lorkad or his children stood next for the Second.

Pherek sniffed. "Lisetha has far too much interest in things which do not concern her. Ore mining in the Stiggond asteroid belt being reduced–that has long been the purview of the Sixth, leave it to them! Minor pirate raids on outlying trade routes, food and fuel price fluctuations, what are these things to a High Councilor that she takes personal interest? These things are nothing, nothing. But ambitious new-made men like this Mitth'raw'nuruodo need wars and battles to raise themselves up. If the wars fail to come, they will not hesitate to make them. Someone so ambitious as to be a trial-son and commander at his age could easily twist a hot-tempered creature like your daughter." He sighed wearily, taking another sip of the clear liquid. "If only your son had been eldest. Or you hadn't allowed your husband, may he rest with the ancestors, to spoil her quite so horribly."

"Or Lanhar had not decided to fly alone." Seleka stared down at the food on her plate, not wishing to let her father see the irritation in her eyes at his implied criticism of her husband. "Neither he nor Lisetha expected her to take her seat so soon. I had hoped, now that she is at least considering coming out of mourning–"

"Ha!" The exclamation became a sharp cough, followed by another sip of his drink. "Another matter. She makes a spectacle of herself with her grief. She has no emotional control."

"I had hoped," Seleka continued, grateful that it could sound like a response to his interruption rather than a determined effort to ignore that he'd spoken, "that she would take a husband with a firm hand who could provide stability. I wish I had simply kept my mouth shut about the Eighth Family's insult. I half think she does this just to torment me."

"Yes, a shame you did not," Pherek agreed far too readily for her taste. "Still, she may yet tire of him. There is some small hope of that. In the meantime," and his eyes glittered with calculation, "has she considered the advantages of marrying Lorkad off to a true-born woman of High Family? The Sixth has a daughter, Naef'aer'ihnar–third daughter, delicate little thing, biddable enough that I've seen. She'd give you heirs with malleable minds to spare. And you're used to dealing with a third child, what with your own."

Seleka let her father speculate, watching the slight trembling of the hand that held his drink with nagging unease. She had only lost her husband last year. She had no desire to lose her father so soon after. Even if Pherek were to die, there was no reason to think her brother Asp'eir'ikadre would not make an excellent councillor, or marry well and produce an heir of his own. Still, Peirik seemed in no great hurry to marry. Rather like his niece had been, until this trial-son of the Eighth had appeared in her life. Lorkad might do well to marry soon, and if the Sixth had a daughter going spare, well . . . there were far worse allies to have.

The arrival of a private flyer on any station base was unusual enough that Thrass would have been alerted as a matter of course even if the pilot had not transmitted an . . . odd request. The pilot was willing to identify herself, but preferred not to. Docking control did not think there was anything dangerous–the flyer was Ascendancy, the voice clearly Chiss . . . when they informed Thrass that the colors and insignia were those of the Second House, he understood. There was only one person likely to be flying under their colors coming to a Defence Force base he commanded, and if she preferred not to identify herself, she likely had good reasons, ones he suspected his patrol group commander would not want spread about the base more than they already would be.

As such, he was not surprised when it was, indeed, Reli'set'harana who climbed out of the flyer. What did surprise Thrass, waiting to meet their visitor with two guards more for show than real concern, was that she was dressed in a functional, plain gray flight suit, her hair pulled back in a utilitarian braid, with no family crests or other decor non-military pilots often adopted to make up for their lack of a uniform. She made no pretense of needing assistance, dropping to the deck with an admirable lightness and grace that bespoke combat training more than genteel lady. And when she approached and he started to make a formal bow, appropriate to her rank, she shook her head.

"Please, Syndic." He'd never heard her speak in person before and she had a pleasant voice, with just the appropriate amount of warmth. "I am under the veil. No formalities are required."

He couldn't help raising an eyebrow. 'Under the veil' was an old term, but not one unfamiliar. Both Councilors and high-ranking officers sometimes wished to move among commoners or lower ranks without the sort of tension that normally fostered. In ancient times, they would have signified this with a cowled hood or camsilk, while now it was simply a polite fiction that meant the Lady was here as a private person, and would both forego any of the usual ceremony and that she would not "see" anything in her capacity as a Councilor. "Of course, Lady Reli'set'harana," She was still a noble, after all, and while his brother might be on intimate, core-name terms, she had yet to issue such an invitation to him. "I had not been informed of any pending visit."

Informal or not, she was taking in the hangar with a clearly calculating eye, noting everything from the guards to the maintenance crews going about their tasks. He noticed her gaze lingered in particular on the fighter craft, and he noted the sleek, almost military lines of her personal ship, and the ports that certainly appeared to be weapons tubes. But the way she looked at him, a touch of a smile at the corner of her eyes, hinted at more amusement than an undercover inspection. "Your brother isn't aware of it, if that's what you mean. I didn't communicate with him as it was you I wished to speak with. And I always enjoy an excuse to fly. Since I had no pressing duties, I thought I would come now, before Defense Force business calls you away again."

"I'm surprised, my Lady," he said, gesturing for her to accompany him. The guards fell back to a more discreet distance. "My brother hadn't mentioned you were a pilot, and I know of course you did not attend the military academy."

"I might have been better off if I had," she said. She was, superficially, the perfect lady, her hands still folded in front of her as if she were in robes or a gown rather than a functional flight suit, but he could see the measured gaze taking in everything around her. "Father did. But I believe he thought my real talents lay elsewhere. Or perhaps somehow he knew I would need to take the Council seat sooner than I thought. I'm not sure I could have given up being a pilot quite so easily as being a simple aide."

Thrass nodded. Was this why she had decided to meet Thrawn? Curiosity or regret about lost opportunities? Perhaps why she had chosen to meet him, he thought, but not why she had continued the acquaintance, let alone send a gift worth more than everything Thrawn had ever owned in his life. His brother's personality was not such merely wearing a uniform would hold her interest if that was his only appeal. "It can be an all-consuming career," he admitted. "There are, I am certain you're aware, few firstborn nobles or appointed heirs to Council seats who spend much time in the Defense Force."

"No, given the risks, and the knowledge one would be cutting the career short sooner rather than later, it rarely is considered a wise decision." They were moving at a brisk pace, he realized, and she did not struggle to keep up with him. Taller than he'd thought–at the very least, she wouldn't be straining her neck to look up at Thrawn. "Still . . . Father did. I think he liked flying better than politics."

"With respect, my Lady, I can't blame him."

She smiled, just a bit. "I don't disagree. A good honest fight is better than smiling one side of your mouth while plotting treachery out the other." She let him guide her to the lift, headed up to the control deck that was the command center for the station. He had duties, after all, and she clearly had no interest in being specially entertained. "But as you might imagine, I didn't come to talk about my own persona career regrets."

"I didn't think so, either." There was more than the usual increase in alertness and efficiency when they stepped onto the command deck–no inappropriate displays of surprise, but backs were a little straighter, voices crisp, every task just slightly more efficiently performed. The Syndic was once again present, and while the Lady was not here officially, everyone knew that while under the veil she might not act on any failings she saw, but she would still make note of them. "I expect the topic of conversation you were interested in is my brother, and perhaps my opinion on your . . . acquaintance with him."

"As he does, you come to the point succinctly," the Lady said, stepping aside to let a technician weighted down with a repair bag slouch past on his way to a nearby console. If she was bothered by being invisible, even at her own request, she gave no outward indication. "Thrawn is not deeply forthcoming, but I do know he values your opinion, possibly higher than any other's. So I am curious to know it, too. Do you, like your brother, think this entire business of Families arranging marriages is a foolish archaism, another example of our people's fixation on maintaining the old ways of things?"

_Thrawn was right, or even understating the case,_ Thrass thought, _she does not stand on ceremony._ _"_ I don't disagree. But I accept that it is the way of our people, for now."

She looked sideways at him, pretending to study one the diagnostic stations. "So you have greater visions than simply rising above your birth, too." She didn't sound disapproving, certainly. "I had wondered if that was a family trait."

"My brother and I sometimes disagree on the manner in which change should be effected, my lady," Thrass said. She was still prowling, without ever doing anything a step too presumptive. Pausing where the technician was working, she picked up a repair tool he'd set aside and studied it. Thrass had the disconcerting impression she was not only considering what it did, but alternative ways it could be used, including as a weapon. Her father might have opted not to send her to an academy, but he'd cleared instilled far more situational awareness and tactical thinking than was generally thought normal. "Of course, that is why he is a trial-son. He has always been more aggressive and willing to assume risk. To himself first, of course, and always calculated, but sometimes more unconventional than I would prefer. For example," and he nodded graciously in her direction, "I am not certain I would have been as inclined to pursue a lady of the Second House, even when the lady seems kindly disposed towards a lowly trial-son of only the Eighth. Such a match is an honor, of course, but it does bring with it a great deal of risk, and to accomplish what we wish to, we must choose our risks carefully."

"Really?" Still holding the tool (and Thrass saw the technician slouching lower in his seat, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat, but his fingers digging into the chair as if to keep himself from grabbing it out of the Lady's hands) and tapping it absently against one palm. "Then I'm fortunate indeed it's Thrawn the Eighth intends to elevate permanently. And does that apply to younger third-daughters as well? I do have a younger sister and to say she must have a husband who'll substantially elevate any children's intellectual potential is the greatest understatement since our ancestors first stood on Csilla's surface and noted it was a bit chilly out." She held out the tool in the technician's direction and he clearly restrained himself from snatching it rudely only with great effort.

Thrass managed to contain the instinctive horror the thought of bondage, even for only a few years, to a no-doubt beautiful but brainless and frivolous youngest daughter, but only just. "I'm afraid so. In any case, it would not be fair to any woman I married–my first and only duty is to the Defense Force and our people."

"And your brother is any different?" She tilted her head inquisitively.

"My brother's priority is the defense of our people," Thrass said. " _All_ of our people. Even loyalty to the Defense Force is secondary."

"Indeed." Her eyes narrowed. "Not one class over another? Aspiration placing nobles over the commons, or residual loyalty to the class you were born to?"

" _All_ of our people," Thrass repeated. "To the point it is at times a vice. And I'm afraid he often finds the High Council's interests conflict with that, and tradition conflicts sometimes to the point of absurdity. We do not differ in that opinion, but we differ in how we would address it."

"I see." She smiled, and it was eerily like when Thrawn smiled–not an unattractive expression, but not by any means pleasant or reassuring. "I had noticed that about him. Even in how he plays _wei-jio_ ," and there was something in how she said it, as if she were smothering . . . a laugh? Absolutely nothing about her expression had changed visibly, but clearly she'd contained herself, and there might have been a faint touch of color in her face. "Aggressive, but not conventionally so. And no hesitation at speaking his mind, even to a High Councilor, about other High Councilors. I really should learn from him there." As she spoke, she fiddled with a chain peeking out the collar of her flight suit, one Thrass recognized. "If I repeated some of the things he's said–about our Defense Force, sitting here, waiting for our enemies to strike us first and spill our blood instead of striking where we know they are . . . resources wasted because of arcane agreements . . . our abject, obvious fear of anything we consider inferior when we really just fear we might be proven inferior ourselves . . . well, half the Council would die of apoplexy in their seats before I finished speaking. But he's right." He saw the edge of the medallion as she tugged it up in an obviously-already-ingrained habit, fingers caressing the stone at the center. "What he could do with the voice of the Second Family behind him. What a child of his with the full power of the Councilorship could do, raised properly . . . and to find there are two of you?" The playful, arch mask was back in place, but there was something serious in her eyes. "No wonder my family is terrified."

_She's in love with him. With my brother, of all people. She speaks of politics, but as if that painting wasn't a hint, whether she knows it or not, she's already yielded her heart to him. And if he is speaking so out of turn to her, voicing opinions that could have even his trial-family stripping his rank and adoption . . .are you planning to use her, brother? Or has that hot temper of yours exerted_ some _control over that glacial-cold intellect at last?_

_If nothing else, my future nieces and nephews will be a force to be reckoned with, with you as their father and such a mother._

"You truly intend to pursue this match?" Concern for his brother, and guilt-tinged concern for her, forced him to ask.

"I confess, my mind was made up, I think, the day we met." Something shadowed her expression. "I had assumed I would have years, and my father's advice, before having to make a match. Now, things the way they are, my mother's family with their eyes on control of the Council–my mother's father is ill, and my uncle has no heir as yet, but if he does my brother's only path to power is through my seat. I must secure it, and I must have a husband who is not intimidated by High Families' games of power. Thrawn is not, that I have ever noticed, afraid of anything. Or at least, he doesn't let it rule his life." She sighed, and he suspected there was nothing feigned in the weariness. "Since my father's death, fear and greed are all I'm surrounded by. I know he's reluctant. So was I. But I cannot afford anyone weaker now. If not him, who?"

Thrass didn't reply for a moment. "You may be making your own position far more precarious. My brother is many things, but not always cautious."

"Neither am I, Syndic." She was staring at him directly now. "He values your thoughts and opinion more than any other's. Do you object to our marrying? I will be wasting my time if you do as he'll refuse."

Thrass studied her, the calm, calculating politician's facade contrasting with how her fingers tightened around the medallion she wore. "Do you intend to use him as tool for your own ambitions? Or do you want this alliance to serve our people?" He thought he knew the answer but direct questions were sometimes best.

Not as often as Thrawn thought they were, but sometimes.

"There is only service to all our people." She didn't hesitate or have to think. "Whether the Council likes it or not. We make ourselves alone in the galaxy out of fear. Someday, that will destroy us. Thrawn sees that. I see that. He has the knowledge to make us safe. And I have the power to make his vision reality. For once, my duty to my family and tradition can serve a greater purpose. We're tools for each other, Syndic. That does not make it the wrong decision."

_May the gods and ancestors help us, brother, if she also has the political will to make everyone see you this way._ Aloud, he said, "Then how can I say I disapprove? And if nothing else, I know by the gift you sent him that you do, in ways many don't, understand my brother."

"The painting?" There was a slightly wistful expression in her eyes. "It was a wrench to part with it, but even while we played _wei-jio_ , he couldn't stop looking at it. I'm glad my gift pleased him."

"More than I think even he realizes." Thrass let a small smile curve his lips. "Would you care for a further tour of the station, my lady?"

"Lisetha," she corrected him gently, "and if it would be no trouble, I'd prefer to wander a bit on my own. I might be under the veil but the presence of their Syndic does put the crew on edge. Allow a High Councilor a bit of fun?"

"Of course, Lady Lisetha," and it was impossible not to use the honorific. Even if she did seem increasingly likely to be his sister. "If there is anything you require, though, do not hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Syndic. I hope we meet again soon. And I'm now doubly grateful your adoptive family decided to gamble in contacting me. I know that Thrawn is not quite as much a fluke as some might think." She turned to go, then glanced at the technician, still hunched over the computer station and determinedly not looking at either of the highly-important people talking behind his back. Lisetha smiled, just slightly. "Really, though, sometimes he _is_ a bit obvious." She turned, the long braid of cobalt hair swinging across her back, and vanished towards the lifts.

Thrass waited a moment, then looked at the technician. "You really thought you were being subtle?"

Thrawn stretched, the hunched posture and slouching shoulders that had taken several handspans off his height vanishing, and he shook himself as if discarding the meek technician's persona like a physical costume. "I did have only a few minutes to come up with a means of eavesdropping. And none of the crew noticed."

"She's a bit more clever than the average," Thrass pointed out. "And I hope you are finally willing to admit she's stunning enough even for you. Without the Councilor robes, I'd go so far as to say beautiful. "

"Looks mean little compared to her mind," Thrawn said, looking in the direction she'd gone. "Her intent, and mine if I cooperate, is not to have pretty children, but intelligent ones."

"So you're still not certain?" Thrass hadn't meant that to sound as incredulous as it did. "If that isn't enough for you, brother, I am going to order you to the medics for a psychiatric evaluation. Unless you think she was lying about duty."

"No, not lying," and he was still looking after her, a pensive expression on his face. "But still, a wife and family with such political ties . . . that, even more than adoption, shackles me to one group when I _will_ serve the whole."

"Then you're not going to like my advice," Thrass said. When Thrawn raised an eyebrow, he clarified, "Get her the heir to the Council seat she needs and wants, and convince her to forego the usual wait between siblings. I want my second niece or nephew as my aide-de-camp sooner rather than later, brother. With the right training, I'd have a commander to make your accomplishments pale by comparison."

Thrawn only sighed. "You too, brother?"

"Don't blame me. You've conquered the Lady's heart, whether you meant to or not," Thrass said. It was a concerted effort not to laugh. "Anyone else would have been plotting to enjoy his conquest by now."

Thrawn's expression darkened, and Thrass knew him well enough to see the real anger seeping through. "Lady Lisetha is not some prize taken in combat to be used at leisure," he said, his tone as controlled as ever, but anyone who knew him could have seen the danger in his eyes. "And what makes you so certain? I heard nothing but politics-intelligent, well-reasoned, yes, but politics all the same."

"You didn't notice?" Thrass felt an absurd pleasure at for once having something over his brother. "Besides how she clearly hasn't taken that 'simple little trinket' you sent her off to the point touching it is a habit, you failed to notice her choice of costume?"

"A flight suit," Thrawn shrugged. "Not of any note, other than her choice of practical over decorative."

"A flight suit in _gray,_ " Thrass expounded. "Not notable, except for her choice of hair adornments. Our lady chose to weave a _burgundy_ ribbon, not her own green or gold, into her braid." He saw the way his brother automatically looked at the Family badges on their own uniforms, the burgundy and gray stitching of the _Eighth_ Family's colors. "Really, brother, if you haven't read the signs by now, I don't know whether to explain what that means, or wait and see if she has to present herself to you naked in your bed to get her point across."

For an instant, Thrawn's face went perfectly, utterly blank. And Thrass had an answer, at least in part, to his earlier musings. _I almost regret giving you that image,_ he thought, pushing the laugh that threatened to escape down, _because even if you still plan to use her, you are using an expansive definition of 'use' and you're now going to be useless to_ me _for the next hour while you think about that. And I think, brother, the lady is far more willing than even she knows._ If the potential ramifications weren't so serious, Thrass would have been completely amused and laughing openly. One thing this courtship was not going to be was boring. Especially not for the onlookers.


	5. Fire and Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry, this one is a bit longer than most-it got away from me and unfortunately there is no logical place to break it up! So you get two POVs and a drama roller coaster!

Lisetha sat, her back straight, her hands folded on her lap, still except for the nervous habit of picking at the mourning bands still sewn to her cuffs. She was, she realized, tugging at the stitches more than the absent plucking she'd been doing since she'd gone into mourning. Maybe, after all, it was time to remove them.

Not in the midst of a Council meeting, of course. She sat calmly to the right of Chri'fen'lasel of the First Family, listening as Orkeli of the Sixth Family spoke. Or rather, droned on, more about the paltry efforts of the workers in the asteroid belt who _ought_ to have been mining larger amounts of the ores needed for the Defense Force's weapons manufacture (the responsibility of the Second and badly stymied by this resource allocation issue), but with the reduction in food shipments as worlds closer to the Stiggond system began to be agriculturally tapped out . . . . She sighed, keeping the expression to a simple flare of her nostrils, and kept her own counsel for now.

Rifenlas was watching her out of the corner of his eye. She gave the tiniest inclination of her head, to show she was aware of it, and he looked away, but she thought there was something oddly amused about his expression. She had no quarrel with the First–almost no one did if they had any sense–and as far as she knew, she'd done nothing other than be the youngest and most recent ascendant to the Council to warrant special note. Then she realized he had not looked from her back to Orkeli, but farther down, to Mitth'aen'ilian. The Aristocra of the Eighth Family had the body language of having just looked away from them both, and Lisetha felt a slight flush of warmth touch her face.

_You, too, Rifenlas?_ Carefully, delicately, she reached out with the Force. Her own people were almost as difficult to read as her Master was easy, but she sensed only benign curiosity from the elder First Councilor, an odd anxiety from Thaenil, and . . . .

The rush of hostility made her twitch. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to remain impassive, and let her gaze pass casually over the source. Her maternal grandfather was sitting as straight as any other Councilor, the soft lights of the chamber dulling the sheen of the gray flecked through his dark hair. Or maybe his hair simply was duller than it used to be. Pherek's hands were locked on the arms of his chair, probably to stop the shaking that had become a regular trait of his recently. The nebulous anger, though, was newer even than that. Her? That would not surprise her lately. And she saw the gaze went from her to Thaenil and back.

So none of her family were pleased with the Eighth's attempt at social climbing. Or her for going along with it. Lisetha wondered if mentioning to her grandfather that Pherek's own grandmother was a merit adoptive made trial-daughter of the Seventh, but no doubt that memory was part of his current objection. His shoulders jerked with a suppressed cough, and filial guilt gave her a brief twinge. He was still, like it or not, blood. Stretching out her mind, she gently but firmly pressed against his will, surprisingly easy to bend, and made him relax, nudging aside his awareness of his own discomfort. It was far simpler than trying to read blocked thoughts or emotions during her Master's tests, but of course, wherever her own abilities had come from, it didn't appear to be via her mother's family. Aleishia had said something once about the use of the Force against varying strengths of mind and the difficulty depending on that.

Lisetha wondered briefly what attempting to cloud Thrawn's mind would be like, and shuddered. Better not to try.

"It is a concern, Sixth Councilor," and she forced herself to pay attention as Rifenlas spoke, "that ore shipments are not only less frequent, but of lower quality. The difficulties you describe are concerning, but one wonders why you have not requested aid. If food is inadequate or workers must be replaced, that is a matter beyond one Family's sphere of influence."

Was it her imagination, or did Orkeli's eyes narrow and his gaze flick away for a moment? "It was a foolish point of pride, First Councilor."

"One which has placed great onus on our people in general, and our fleet in particular." Thaenil looked deliberately to where Lisetha was sitting. "The arms and equipment cannot be made without raw materials. The Defense Force cannot protect us without those arms and equipment."

"That seems a matter of failed communication between the Eighth and Second," Orkeli countered. "And we had all thought matters there were so warm of late."

Lisetha arched an eyebrow, but as she was not as yet officially part of the conversation left it to Thaenil to respond. "There have always been convivial relations between my Family and the Lady Lisetha's, Orkeli," she said mildly. "Our ties may be closer of late, but that does not mean we can jointly intrude into the business of the Sixth."

"Yet," and Lisetha was not the only one who looked towards Pherek at the muttered comment. She pushed a bit harder, suggesting he was too tired to argue further. It was not a long stretch; he clearly was.

Thaenil did not change expression. "The Second's factories and research cannot function without raw materials, and our soldiers cannot fight without the arms and armament they produce. I believe Lisetha has mentioned the reduction in refined ores and minerals in previous sessions."

That was a cue, and Lisetha picked it up. "I recall having mentioned it. My own recent bereavement has not completely distracted me, nor have more recent social commitments." Was it her imagination, or was Rifenlas smothering a smile? "I have not forgotten, Orkeli, that I can and will investigate in person. If I require assistance, there are those within the Defense Force who have proven very cooperative of late."

"We all know who she means," and she wondered if she should just put her grandfather to sleep completely. "Ore mining is the Sixth's responsibility. Agriculture is the Fourth's. Leave our business to us, child, stick to your own, and leave those not born to this out of it entirely."

"When your responsibilities intrude upon ours, it becomes our business," Lisetha said. _You would never have dared speak to Father that way. And I don't think you could say it to Mitth'ras'safis or Thrawn in person, either._ "I do not in particular like the rumors of raiding parties in the Stiggond Belt and surrounding protectorates."

"Greatly overstated, Second Councilor," Orkeli said. "Though I suppose you plan now to make good on your threat to investigate personally?"

"Threat?" She let her voice rise–innocent, feminine, after all so young yet. "Merely a suggestion. And, of course, there is the option of allowing the Defense Force to investigate for us. An increase in patrols, perhaps, to assure that shipments are indeed reaching your work force. After all, I cannot imagine there are truly significant agricultural or food-processing concerns as the Fourth Councilor has not alerted us to any such issues." _Take that, Grandfather._

"Because there are none," Pherek said, and then his voice broke in a sharp cough. Lisetha, in spite of herself, half-rose and she saw Formbi of the Fifth Family, seated on her grandfather's left, lean in concernedly. "Oh, leave off, all of you," the old man protested, waving away the assistance.

"Perhaps it might be best," and Rifenlas had mastered the art of making his voice carry without seeming to raise it, "if we were to adjourn for the day. Sixth Councilor, I must agree with our colleague the Second, the situation requires investigation beyond what your Family has conducted. With no insult to you, the Second and Eighth have a vested interest which has suffered. A joint task force shall be convened, among your three Families and the Fourth, as food production has been implicated as well, to consider the matter. Does any Councilor voice objection?"

That would not veto the matter, but would certainly slow things down. Lisetha held her breath, but Orkeli held his peace, and her grandfather, though he was shaking his head, waved away any objection. She nodded her own agreement, and saw the smile of triumph, quickly smothered but there, that momently curved Thaenil's lips.

"Very well." Rifenlas rose, Lisetha the appointed half-second after and others following suit. "We are adjourned, until our next time of meeting, at which I will expect the plans for this task force to be presented." Then his lips twitched, just a bit, and she thought the slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes was genuine mirth. There was no obvious change to his cool sense in the Force, though. "Though it is not the place of the First to dictate matters of military personnel to the Eighth," and Thaenil looked up sharply, "perhaps one might suggest our newest young commander be given responsibility for the Defense Force aspects of this task force? It would be a further recognition of his achievement, and of course, it might please the Second Family as well."

And there was no missing the flare of amusement behind the words.

Lisetha felt warmth creeping up her neck, and before she could stop herself she looked away. _Like some sort of simpering girl, like your_ sister _, you child!_ "Whatever arrangements for our security the Eighth chooses to make have always been acceptable in the past. I have no reason to believe they will not continue to be so."

"The Second is too kind," and she had the impression Thaenil was not only referring to the compliment.

Rifenlas only smiled just a trace, and removed the ceremonial fasces that symbolized the Council's authority (nine rods bound together around the ancient tip of a long-obsolete fighting pike) from its place on the stand before his seat. With the fasces taken down, they were officially dismissed, though as always there was no rush to disperse. Lisetha waited, but her grandfather seemed more than capable of stalking out under his own power, some younger cousin of hers on that side trailing after him at a pace that wasn't truly becoming of a Council aide. She glanced over her shoulder and gestured for Ser'halin, her own assistant (and, despite the scar slashing across his right eye that had ended his Defense career prematurely, her personal guard) to stay at a discreet distance. Serhal gave the slightest nod and remained several paces back while she waited for Thaenil to approach.

Thaenil was about the same age as Lisetha's grandfather, but the Aristocra of the Eighth Family carried it far better. There was no hint of illness and only the slightest lines in her features and fading of her hair suggested her age. There was no resemblance, of course, to her trial-grandson, but Thrawn was born of the common people, likely a soldier's family, and elevated by merit. He shared no blood with the Eighth Councilor, but more than a little of the regal bearing. Either they had trained him well, or it simply came naturally. Even having met his blood brother, she wasn't sure.

"Lisetha," and Thaenil inclined her head politely. "Would you have a moment to walk with me?"

"I'm in no hurry," she assured the other. While birth and family placed Lisetha in a slightly higher rank, age and courtesy demanded she yield precedence to Thaenil. And, of course . . . . "I am intending to dine with your trial-grandson this evening, but that will not be for several hours yet. And assumes his duties will not intervene yet again. Shall I tell him of this task force, or would you prefer to wait?"

"If you mention it, he will insist on leading the security forces," Thaenil said, and though her expression was properly impassive, through the Force Lisetha felt a faint swirl of satisfaction. "Unless the task is given to his brother, our merit-son, instead. Mitth'raw'nuruodo is one who is never satisfied a task is done properly unless he does it himself, oversees it, or has trained those performing it, but he is willing to allow his brother precedence."

"I rather like that about him. And I certainly understand the impulse." There were those who could be trusted, of course. But Father had been right, and once again she plucked at the white ribbon stitched haphazardly around her cuff. Rank carried duties, and the higher the rank, the greater the responsibility, the less anyone who cared would delegate. "Do you intend to name Thrawn or Thrass to this mission?"

Thaenil raised an eyebrow just a trace, but said, "In all likelihood. They are above suspicion and they also will not hesitate if we are wrong, and there is only simple inefficiency, not corruption." She paused a few breaths. "I had not realized you had exchanged core names with both my adoptive grandsons."

Lisetha shrugged, her face equally impassive and schooled to stay that way. "I visited their patrol station under the veil. I am pleased to know there are such Syndics as Thrass serving our people. As for Thrawn . . . ." She gauged just enough of a shrug to seem not-quite-nonchalant. "I can see why he was your choice as trial-son. We exchanged core names upon our first meeting. I found he was someone I wished to know."

"I see." There was no real polite way for Thaenil to ask, another of the odd quirks raised by Lisetha's abrupt elevation. With her father still Second Councilor, Thaenil could have asked point-blank whether the somewhat-hasty courtship was moving towards a formal negotiation. With Lisetha as both the head of her Family _and_ the potential bride, conversation was somewhat more awkward. "I understand you sent our trial-son quite a generous gift of a painting."

Lisetha felt an unaccustomed twinge of embarrassment. "He admired it greatly. My father would approve of it belonging to someone who'll appreciate it as much as he did and I do."

"Yes, I expect Lanhar would agree," and she made no secret in how she looked at the mourning bands. "He was a wise man, taken from us far too young. I understand your grief and share it."

_But it is difficult to think you're seriously contemplating marriage if you won't stop mourning,_ Lisetha finished for her silently. _Perhaps . . ._ Her fingers plucked at the mourning band. _I can ask Aleishia when I reach home. Perhaps it is time for the last white to come away._ "I doubt very much I will ever cease grieving entirely," she admitted, "but I can best serve Father's memory by continuing his work. That means, whether the Sixth Councilor or my grandfather like it or not, resolving this mining problem. I don't believe it's simply stubborn workers and minor shipping errors. If the workers are being mistreated, Orkeli and his people must answer for it. If the ore _is_ still being mined, and being diverted elsewhere . . . ." _Then I will find where this treason leads and end it before it becomes a crisis._

Thaenil was watching her intently. "Because the supply crisis threatens your Family's industry and military influence?"

"Because our first duty is to our people, whether their families are loyal to our houses or not," Lisetha said, barely controlling her tone and knowing as it came out that she'd failed to control her features entirely. "We did not claw our way out of the ice and to the stars by division. What threatens one of us threatens all. The workers are my responsibility as much as the technicians in a weapons lab."

Thaenil's brow momentarily furrowed. "I see." There was no inflection to the tone, and no obvious change in the Force beyond that same faint surprise. "I begin to understand why you find our trial-son more appealing than perhaps even my son hoped when he suggested we offer Mitth'raw'nuruodo as a prospective husband for you."

"Thrawn is devoted to all the Chiss," Lisetha said, unable to keep a flare of righteous indignation down. "I am, as my father raised me, much the same. It is a trait I value over blood or wealth in a prospective mate and father of my heir."

"I did not imply, Lisetha, that this was a bad thing," Thaenil corrected mildly. "And may I assume, by what you've said, that you are settled on Thrawn as that mate? And prepared to negotiate formally?"

"I am prepared to keep such decisions between Thrawn and myself at the moment," Lisetha countered, trying to regain some composure. "After all, even if I desire it, if he places career over everything, the point is moot. He does not seem the sort to settle for a brief contract."

"Probably so." Thaenil had no hint of expression. "If I may say so, however . . . he could do far worse. And though it is entirely improper of me to mention it, so could you."

"Believe me, Thaenil," Lisetha said, glancing at the scattering remains of the Council in its dispersal, "I am fully aware of that."

Thrawn was half-surprised to be presenting himself at the appointed time at Lisetha's door. He had to cancel plans for their half-formalized meetings as often as keep them and the surprise summons by his trial-grandmother had, he'd thought, been a harbinger of more disaster. Instead, Mitth'aen'ilian had seemed oddly distracted, and studied him for a long moment before saying only, "There will be an important mission assignment for your patrol soon. And I expect the Lady Lisetha to explain further when you see her this evening. Do not fail to attend her." Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. "Remember, Thrawn, you were elevated in honor of your achievements, but also to serve the Eighth Family. Lisetha has been exceptionally tolerant of your . . . quirks so far. A marriage with her is both an honor and a way to serve the Family that has raised you to the possibility. Do not forget that."

Thrawn had been almost too surprised to reply, but had managed the correct, polite, reasonably obedient words before withdrawing. His innate inclination to do the unexpected meant he considered finding an excuse to absent himself, but curiosity won out, as it often did. The elderly servant who seemed to always be in the hall when he arrived, Seln, gave him another of those hard, suspicious looks and grumbled in his servant's dialect about the unworthy visitors his Lady had taken to entertaining, obviously not at all concerned whether the object of his disdain understood him or not. As Thrawn had been raised speaking a nearly-identical dialect, he understood perfectly, but containing his amusement was a greater concern than taking offense.

Instead of the solar, this dinner was in the actual dining room, though Thrawn noted as he entered that the _wei-jio_ board had been moved and was resting on a small side table, and he couldn't help a slight smile. Lisetha had in nearly twenty games thus far managed to defeat him seven times, a record only surpassed by Thrass when he deigned to play. Though the meal would no doubt be flawless, as most things seemed to be for the noble-born, he found he was anticipating a game afterwards with much more eagerness.

The room was empty, save for the dinner service laid out on the low, small table (she had, he noticed, had the room rearranged for a more intimate seating), but as he was examining the scroll painting above the sideboard, a graceful impression of white snows and night sky, he heard the by-now-familiar footsteps behind him. "I'm afraid that one isn't the most impressive piece from the family collection," Lisetha said from near the door. "I had a Vercasstorannix that had a better starscape, but it went to a more appreciative household than this one."

"I find it hard to believe it lacked for appreciation in this house, so long as you or your father were present," Thrawn replied, and then he turned and found it hard to _breathe_ for a moment. Lisetha was standing just inside the entry, not perfectly framed (she would never be so obvious) but with the light from the door casting a faint halo around her. She had abandoned robes and formal Council wear again, but instead of a plain flight suit or something equally practical, she wore the sort of gown he knew, in a more academic than practical sense, the highborn or aspiring favored, and she wore it very well indeed. The deep burgundy fabric was shot through with fine gold threads, adding a metallic glimmer as she moved, and the neckline, though not indecorously low, showed far more of her neck and shoulders and . . . other attributes than anything he'd yet seen her wear. A graceful translucent drape of fabric on each shoulder acted as a kind of sleeve, but her arms were otherwise bare. Besides the delicate strands of deep green and silvery-gray pearls woven through her hair (which was no longer in its child-like mourning fall or a utilitarian braid, but half-coiled , much of its length contained in a graceful braid folded back on itself) the only embellishment she'd added was the delicate filigreed medallion, the center stone glinting from where it rested in the hollow of her collarbones. The bodice was fitted down to just above her hips, giving him a far better appreciation of the curves of her body than robes had allowed, and the skirt flared, just barely, to a fuller shape below that.

It took him a moment, and the fact it did disturbed him, to realize what color was entirely absent. When he trusted his voice not to be so dry he would choke on his own words, he said, "I see you have chosen to come out of mourning completely, my lady."

"It seemed time." She looked down at herself critically, picking at a non-existent thread. "And I thought we might be a bit less Councilor and Commander among ourselves by now. It's been a long time since I've had a new dress. Do you think it suits me? The color, I mean."

"Very much so." It was more fervent than he'd intended and he cursed his lack of self-control as she looked away briefly, as if she were fighting to maintain her composure. He remembered her flitting off the bridge of the patrol station, that burgundy ribbon twined in her hair, and Thrass having to point her choices out. Now he looked more critically: the green pearls and gold thread, touches of the Second's colors, but the soft gray pearls, and the rich red fabric . . . .she had married their Family colors in her wardrobe, and if she had assumed he would wear his uniform (as he in fact had and always did) had arranged for their clothes to restate the Eighth's with his predominantly silver-gray, hers the dark burgundy.

Thrass had wondered whether the lady would have to resort to presenting herself to Thrawn nude in his bed to make her point. Apparently a well-cut shimmersilk gown was sufficient. It was impossible to ignore the message now.

Lisetha, though, kept a suitably-demure smile in place, and gestured to the table. "Please, let's not stand on ceremony. I hope you don't mind a relatively simple meal. I was hoping to keep interruptions to a minimum."

"I prefer plainer fare myself," though he wondered if the Second Family's definition of simple were quite in line with his. As he sat, and she poured him a glass of wine (deep red, not a light, sweet keral meant for social drinking) he examined the selection of small platters–all, for the most part, clean and basic foods, many made from the few kinds of plants and animals that could be raised in the hydroponics and heated chambers on Csilla itself. Very little, he noted, from the grain- and exotics-producing worlds managed largely by the Fourth Family and their cadet branches. "A soldier's habit."

"I had little appetite since my father died, at least until recently," Lisetha said, taking her own glass and settling gracefully into her chair. "And now I seldom have time for a proper meal with Council business increasingly complex. Tell me," and again there was that shift to her posture, a forward lean not suitably graceful and detached but like a hunting bird fixing on a target, "what do you know of pirates raiding supply runs to the Stiggond Belt? Or the ore processing facilities?"

Once again, Thrawn had to pause an instant to adjust to her shift in topics. Especially as this was undoubtedly what his trial-grandmother had been referring to, or the beginning of it. "I was unaware there were any disturbances in the supply lines," was all he said, which was the truth. "A significant reduction in production numbers, and an unusual amount of worker transit in, but there have been no requests for further security of which I'm aware."

She had picked up a small, crisp root wrapped in some thin-sliced meat, and was nibbling it thoughtfully. "The Sixth are claiming that there is no interruption, only workers no longer producing as quickly as they have before due to reduced conditions, but nothing of any losses. The Fourth say there is no change in the food shipments, though I can say from direct knowledge they would die before asking the Defense Force's help even if every other ship were being torn to shreds. Pherek–Ahp'her'ekadre, my mother's father–is old and sick, but he still rules their Family. He is not, by the way, best pleased with my marriage negotiations. Apparently you're a disappointment in the extreme."

Thrawn took a small, delicately-sliced piece of fish from one of the platters, relieved to find it was not highly-seasoned, just straightforward, clean, flavors of the food, no matter how artfully arranged on the serving dish. "I cannot say, based on my interaction with his grandson your brother, that I'm at all surprised."

"My brother inherited his taste from the Fourth," Lisetha said, her expression a very improper grimace. "And what did you mean about an unusual amount of worker transit in? Orkeli said nothing about requiring more workers."

It was going to take some time, becoming accustomed to hearing the High Councilor's core names as a matter of course, he thought, giving himself a moment by taking a measured sip of the wine. This was darker, richer, and with a much more potent edge than what she had offered on previous visits. "There have been four more transports of mine workers, skilled labor and processing specialists, to the Stiggond Mining Platforms in the last six months. Normal escort was provided by the Defense Force, and no corresponding escort for traffic out was requested. There are either more workers there than production suggests, or workers are dying or otherwise being removed and replaced without notification."

Lisetha leaned back in her seat, very improperly letting her back touch the chair's. "Indeed. That I do find interesting as nothing in the Sixth Councilor's statements make any mention of increased work forces. Or such a significant loss of workers _four_ extra transports were required to replace them."

Thrawn smiled, just a trace, and chose another delicacy from the serving trays. "Perhaps he thought the Council would not find such information interesting."

"Perhaps." There was something downright glacial at the edge of her tone. She popped a small oilfruit stuffed with a creamy filling into her mouth and bit it rather more sharply than the savory required. "Perhaps he thinks some of us will find it too interesting. Which is why there will be a task force. Your grandmother and I are representing the interests of the military and defense research, the Fourth and Sixth claim they are assisting us and have only the interests of the miners and the agricultural worlds at heart. The Fourth, at least, is lying."

"The Sixth as well, if they have never mentioned their excess need for fresh miners and processors," Thrawn said. The food was, he thought absently, quite good, fresh and clean and not at all ostentatious. Though he would have to be careful of the wine. Already, he could feel a warmth and a faint lethargy creeping through his limbs, and Lisetha had a trace of color in her cheeks. And, he noticed, the dark wine stained her lips just a bit, making them look fuller without any of the cosmetics she seemed to forego as a rule.

_Imagine tasting the wine on those lips._

Thrawn blinked. Where had _that_ thought come from? The wine, of course, the comfortable surroundings, the aesthetic pleasure of a beautiful woman's company and undivided attention. The fact that her choice of dinner conversation was politics of the most ruthless sort . . . yes, that gave more light to her eyes than the wine, and made her seem even more alluring. He'd watched her depart the patrol station at the end of her impromptu visit, flying herself in the little fighter, and had studied the unorthodox patterns she'd flown once clear of the station's pickets. She flew with an abandon that would never be tolerated in a young officer, and he had no doubt the weapons on the little fighter, regulations notwithstanding, were live and she some practice using them. A warrior at heart, trapped by birth in a politician's role, but she'd learned to thrive in it.

"We will be going in person to visit one of the ore-refining facilities," Lisetha was saying, and Thrawn forced himself to pay attention to her words, not how the light was playing off the cobalt highlights of her hair or by how much skin the bodice of her dress really revealed. He set his wine glass farther aside. "I already expressed this to your grandmother, but I want you or your brother in command of security. She's correct that neither of you will be likely to miss any attempts at deception, nor will you hesitate to tell us if we're incorrect and there is no deception after all."

"Thrass would be a better choice to command the mission." He didn't hesitate. "He has the rank, and as a merit-son, no permanent ties to the Eighth or Second Families. He cannot be accused of any conflict of interest should he find corruption on the part of the Fourth or Sixth."

"I agree, but I do expect him to appoint the best officers as well," Lisetha said, her fingers toying with the stem of her glass. "I mean you, of course." She paused. "I would feel personally reassured to have both your brother the Syndic and you involved directly."

"Of course." He deliberately kept his tone neutral. "You think there's more than sidelined shipments or negligence."

"I know there is." She leaned forward, the wine forgotten along with the food. "There are enemies within our territory that the Council is not prepared to acknowledge, striking along the fringes of the Ascendancy."

"I am not unaware of that, either." He had not realized anyone on the Council, let alone Lisetha, knew, only that without more substantiation than he could not demand or even request action. And to the Council, even his trial-family, frightened rambling from non-Chiss subjects did not count as evidence. "You think it's the raiders intercepting the shipments?"

"Not raiders," Lisetha said, her gaze turning away almost sightlessly. "Not exactly. Something is arming pirates and lesser races, young races, with technology advanced beyond our prior experience. Such technology would be significant resource drain to produce."

"And you believe whomever is behind this armament production is raiding the ore supplies?" But that didn't track. That was precisely the sort of thing the Sixth _would_ complain about and vocally.

"Raiding? No." There was a sober grimness in her expression, enough to drive even the most delicious thoughts about her hair and her gown and her . . . assets from his mind. "I think they're trading for it. The technology I'm speaking of would give whomever possessed it enormous power, even greater than the Defense Force. Our developers couldn't replicate it, not yet, anyway. Anyone who could acquire it . . . they would have something we couldn't match."

Thrawn frowned. What Lisetha was describing was not only treason, it was . . . impossible. Unheard of. "You realize you are suggesting that members of a High Family, that possibly a High Councilor, is working with _aliens_ to destabilize our military and our government. That has never happened, not since the ancient times."

"They may not be entirely aware what they are doing, if what I've learned about the power behind these aggressors is true." She stared at him for a long minute, and he had a strange sense of being weighed and measured, with an overtone of finality. "There are," she said finally, her fingers curling in a clearly nervous gesture, "things which you should know if this . . . if we are going to be . . . ." She sighed. "Whether this courtship is to proceed further or not, this is something you should know about, something that can be of use to you in defending out people." She turned in her seat and looked towards the servant's door. "Serhal, Aleishia, join us."

Thrawn felt an unreasonable flicker of betrayal as the bodyguard and the veiled servant entered, even though he knew, rationally, that Ser'halis at least was likely never far from his lady (certainly never beyond screaming distance) and their previous encounters were often chaperoned by the alien servant in her camsilk. The bodyguard, a charric in his holster and his one-eyed gaze respectful but level, stopped near the door, but the servant came forward to within five paces. Lisetha rose and Thrawn followed suit, that sense of unease still there.

"How I know what I know about this enemy, these dark ones, and what they can do, is also why I keep a servant no one ever sees." Lisetha looked from the veiled woman, who did not move, her gloved hands folded before her. "Aleishia, if you would please . . . ."

There was the slightest hesitation, and then she reached up and unhooked her veil, pulling the cowl of her tunic back as well. Thrawn was suddenly relieved at the presence of the guard, as that was the tipping point for his self-control remaining intact. Innate revulsion and primal terror notwithstanding, he would not lose face in front of an injured veteran. It was one of the most difficult things he remembered doing, because of all the possibilities he'd imagined, a complete unknown was not one of them. The servant, Aleishia, was shaped very much like a Chiss, despite being on the short side, but she had skin like a corpse, drained of color, and her hair, while mercifully dark, was a shade that properly belonged in wooden furniture, not hair. There was a white streak breaking up the dark color, starting from above her temple, the same snowy color the extremely aged might sport, but unless her species was radically different she showed no other signs of being elderly. In fact, he realized as he forced his analysis to be more critical, she stood like a warrior, her balance even, her hands forward and free, her eyes–

Thrawn flinched and had to look away. He had seen beings with strange eyes–mutli-faceted, odd colors, even those without eyes at all, but something in this . . . creature's was simply wrong. Instead of a solid glow of a single color, she had only tiny dark orbs surrounded by more deathly-white, but obviously she had no difficulty seeing because she was looking straight at him, her gaze unflinching and direct, no deference or fear that he could see. It matched her at-ready posture, the gaze of a warrior unafraid of her surroundings, not seeking a fight but prepared if one arose, and for the second time this evening, Thrawn had the sense he was being weighed and measured. As if this . . . alien, this bizarre creature had not just the nerve but the _right_ to judge a Chiss warrior!

"Other than those of us in this room," and Thrawn turned at the sound of Lisetha's voice, suddenly softer and less certain but blessedly familiar, "only Seln, my oldest retainer, knows who and what Aleishia is. Serhal was with me when we found her in the wreckage of a battle site on the moon of Khnum when I was traveling after Father's funeral so he has known from the first. I have no secrets from Seln. I wanted to tell you, both because someone in the Defense Force _must_ hear what she has to say, and because . . . ." Her voice caught slightly, and she glanced at the strange alien woman. The alien nodded, like a parent reassuring a child! "I wanted," and Lisetha sounded more confident again, "to be sure that there are no great secrets between us. I've allowed this process to go too far without being completely honest about things you must know if you are to make a fair decision."

Thrawn nodded slowly, taking a deep breath before trusting his voice to be steady. "What does she have to say that can help our people? What can an alien from . . . what species is she?"

" _She_ understands you perfectly well," and while the words had that bizarre accent he'd noticed the first day he had met Lisetha, they were intelligible. "And we call ourselves humans, not that it matters at the moment. For now, I doubt there's another of my kind for thousands of light-years in any direction. What I can tell you, Commander, is about how I came to be wrecked on that moon. Lisetha speaks the truth–there is a grave threat to your people, far more insidious and deadly than simple pirates."

"I would be more inclined to listen," and dignity was easier to maintain now, as he adjusted to those strange, piercing, eyes of hers, "if I knew to whom I was speaking."

She actually smiled, suppressed a laugh, even! Were her people no better than children if they had so little self-control? "My name is Aleishia Zei-Venah. Unlike your people mine place their given name first, as a rule, and . . . allegiance indicators last." There was something odd about how she said that, but he let it pass for now. "I come from a world called Coruscant, near the Core of the galaxy. I was raised there by–well, never mind, that's more detail than we have time for. Suffice to say I belonged to an order of . . . warrior-lawkeepers, I will call us, who are tasked with supporting justice and peace throughout our government's worlds. Some of us also explore and seek to expand our knowledge of the people our government has yet to reach, and that is how I came to the Unknown Regions."

"The _what?_ " Thrawn was certain he'd misheard.

"Yes," Lisetha said, and he was inordinately pleased that she had taken up a position nearer to him than to her strange servant or guest or prisoner or whatever this _hew-man_ really was. "They call this the Unknown Regions, as if something doesn't exist until their Core worlds know about it! And the borderlands they call 'Wild Space!'"

"That at least is accurate," Thrawn said, then looked back at Aleishia. "Continue."

"Thank you," she said, with a tone so dry he'd seriously have considered slapping a cadet for taking it. "My husband and I," and there was a definite emotive break to her tone there that made Lisetha twitch as if restraining herself from offering comfort, "had been seeking out new races and planets, learning about them, their languages, cultures, beliefs. That was how we heard about these aliens. They're called dark gods, shadow-walkers, every race we encountered has some term for them but does not know their own name. Dark ones is probably the most accurate. Some fear them, but others embrace the power they offer–weapons, ships that can't be tracked, energy technology that makes even your forces' seem negligible. They rarely strike personally, preferring to arm their proxies instead." She shuddered. "We encountered them on the world you call Khnum's satellite. It was . . . ." Those horrifying eyes closed, and now it was Serhal who seemed to catch himself from comforting her. "I cannot describe to you what they are. Insectoid, I suppose, is closest, but they move as if they are not entirely of this plane. The servant who lead them to us may have been a sentient once, but it was merely a puppet to the dark one, something to throw at us. And the screaming . . . ." She seemed to brace herself as if struggling to contain some horrible pain, and Thrawn suddenly understood Lisetha and Serhal's urge to soothe her. "They're telepathic, whatever they are, and the sound in my mind–it was every horrible scream you can imagine, that you've ever heard. Fear and pain and grief and anguish and the emptiness, the horrible emptiness, and worst of all it _knew_ me, knew every nightmare I'd ever had, that Mihall had ever known, and we couldn't keep it out." She stopped, clearly struggling to compose herself.

Lisetha spoke, her voice still quiet and clearly meant for Thrawn primarily. "The wreckage we spotted was strange–burn scars from an energy weapon like nothing we have. The ship she and her husband had used was almost completely destroyed-nothing, by the way, to concern ourselves about, from what Aleishia's said and what was left their lasers and shielding are not as strong as even our civilian transports. Even if more of her people come we're in no danger from them." If she noticed how Aleishia flinched at that, she gave no indication "But the dark alien . . . what wreckage I found was a mix of some very primitive material-Xhalat, I think–and alloys that I've never seen before. If alloys is even the correct term."

"The Xhalat are not an advanced space-faring race," Thrawn said, considering, as his mind already began fitting the pieces they were giving him together. "Not in any military sense."

"The best kind for these things," Aleishia said, and Thrawn could see she was shivering. Their species did seem to be absurdly fragile. "Advanced enough to learn, primitive enough to be pliable . But if they were able to find a more advanced race, one that was ready to expand with or without their help but prepared to bargain for it anyway . . . . "

"There are plenty who would give a great deal for that kind of power. There are some among our nobles without military honor but with ambition who would use it to advance their own and their families' ends." Serhal caught himself, looking from his lady to Thrawn and back. "Forgive me, Aristocra, Commander, I spoke out of turn."

Lisetha waved a dismissive hand, still focused on Thrawn. "He's right, and I do not hesitate to include my own blood relatives in this. There is a poison infecting our sector and it's corrupting our people. This business with the ore is part of it, but I can't prove it yet. Aleishia has more experience of these aliens than I do, and she has . . . other abilities which can be of use to us. Especially when it comes to confronting these things and any allies they've created. If the ore shipments are vanishing or workers are being taken–"

"And they could be." Interrupting! Clearly, wherever Aleishia came from manners were not taught as a priority. "Some of their ship . . . they require living components. They kill easily enough, but being taken by them would be worse."

That section of the puzzle seemed suddenly clear. "You mention your husband twice. He isn't here. He was killed?"

She twitched, but to his un-surprise the dark look in his direction came from Serhal, and now the guard did place a hand on her shoulder. Aleishia gently stepped away from his touch, though, and nodded to Thrawn. "Yes. I can only assume it was quick, I didn't see. I was trying to protect our . . . ." Now her voice caught and her lips pressed into a thin line and he could see her fighting for control.

"There was a child," Lisetha said softly. "That I understood when I found her, even though we couldn't speak. There are some sorts of fear one doesn't need words to express. A baby girl. She was gone, too."

"And I would have died had my–Lady Lisetha not found me." Thrawn heard the awkward pause, and the alien was no longer meeting his gaze. "I wanted to die, in many ways, but I thought, someone has to live. Someone has to be told. I thought I might get back to my own people, but it's so far and our ship was destroyed. I was too badly injured to think of anything but recovery, even if Lady Lisetha or–" and her gaze turned back to Serhal–"others would allow it, and it's been so long now. In any case, your people are here. You're a power to rival the Republic and you're here. This is your territory, the worlds at risk your protectorates. This is your fight as much or more than mine."

Thrawn filed away the mention of a 'republic,' whatever that was, to ask about later. For now, though, the alien looked as if she were wavering on her feet. Instead of pressing her further, he turned to Lisetha. "This is why you brought her here. You realize that even being an Aristocra, even what she's said, would not be enough to protect you from punishment for this?"

"I'm fully aware of that." Lisetha's gaze dropped, and he had the bizarre sense that she was, suddenly, deferring to him. "And what would happen to Aleishia were her presence discovered. But I also know what will happen if we allow these aliens to corrupt the Council or the Defense Force. I trust you to know what to do with this information, just as I trust you to be honest when our task force goes to the Stiggond Belt. There is always the possibility I am wrong about this situation and if I am, you will not hesitate to tell me." She kept her eyes down, and her fingers were once again plucking at a non-existent loose thread in her dress.

"Rest assured, I will." Thrawn looked back at the alien woman, suddenly strangely uncomfortable watching Lisetha stare at the floor. "I take it you're ruse has been successful so far."

"Yes, sir," and it was Serhal who answered again. A shame about his eye, the man had the cool composure that must have served him well in the Defense Force. "And if I may speak freely," and out of the corner of his vision Thrawn saw Lisetha nod, "we do have contingency plans were her identity discovered."

"Which would not involve my fleeing," and Lisetha had apparently gotten some of her spirit back, though Thrawn was not sure what had wilted it in the first place. "But I will not have someone under my protection suffer for my decisions."

Thrawn paused. "Nor should you." Aleishia was looking at him again, the grief still obvious, but contained. "I trust you understand, human, how much you owe to the Lady Lisetha and the risk she's taken sheltering you?"

"Better than you realize," and whatever spirit Lisetha might be lacking, Aleishia had regained hers. "I hope you, Commander, realize exactly what her trust in _you_ means. Even if she's not clear on that point herself."

"That will be quite enough of that," Lisetha said, before Thrawn could think clearly about what the human meant. "Serhal, would you escort Aleishia to her quarters? I won't require either of you again this evening."

"Of course, my lady, but . . . ." There was something strangely wistful in how the bodyguard looked at the human, and Thrawn suppressed a grimace as he realized exactly the nature of that look. "If the Commander is remaining, it wouldn't be appropriate–"

"I can assure you I am quite safe in Mitth'raw'nuruodo's presence," Lisetha said quietly. "Aleishia, I apologize for disturbing you with unpleasant memories."

"The memories are unpleasant whether I discuss them openly or not," and maybe she had learned some appropriate control living among their people. "But yes, I think it best if we leave you both now." Once again he was on the receiving end of a very pointed look that he could not quite interpret with the strange, open eyes she had. Then Senhal took her arm and they retreated from the dining room, leaving Lisetha and Thrawn alone again.

Thrawn turned to her. Once again her eyes were downcast, and she turned away, fingers tracing the rim of the wine glass she'd abandoned on the table. The dress was still beautiful, gold threads and pearls shimmering in the light, the cobalt highlights glimmering in her hair. But her shoulders, still an inviting curve of bare skin, were slumped just a bit. "I will understand," she said softly, "if you wish to leave now. I hope knowing a secret I've been keeping will not prevent you from accepting command or second command of security for our investigative mission."

"I will of course follow the orders I am given," he said absently. His eyes had drifted back to the scroll painting, with its sweep of color from the snowscape of their world to the velvet black of space. "Such a strange species. The eyes are disturbing, quite frankly."

"Yes, they are," and her voice was still that soft, quiet, almost listless quality. "I've grown accustomed to them, though."

"Hm." He considered the stars of the painting. The artist had not marked their name, but this must have been painted after their race had reached the stars. And developed more chemically-sophisticated paints; the black of space was almost as deep as the real thing, and he had the sense the artist had known it, played on it, layering the fear and the lure of the unknown threat into the starscape. No wonder Lisetha chose to hang this where she would see it often, or left it there if it had been her father's choice.

He realized she was still looking at the food, the wine, the wall beyond the table, anywhere but at him. Then, finally, her first words registered. She expected him not just to leave the dinner, but to withdraw from their negotiations. Call it what it was, from their courtship. Considered the secret she had revealed, however well-motivated, sufficient that he would want nothing more to do with an alliance.

And it was clearly an emotional blow. She was clearly sacrificing something she valued, both to be honest with him, and to protect a truth she considered more important, but it _was_ a sacrifice.

_Thrass was right. Again. This is becoming an extremely annoying habit of his._

He had to choose his next words carefully. "My lady?" He put just the slightest emphasis on the possessive. She started, turning, and he saw for half a heartbeat a flare of emotion that might have been hope cross her features. "Is something wrong?"

She stared at him as if he'd lost his mind, or she was wondering whether she had. "I beg your pardon? I assumed you would want to go now."

"You assumed incorrectly." He picked up both their glasses, holding hers out to her, and she took it almost numbly. He attributed the frisson of a chill down his spine as their fingers brushed to how hers felt abnormally cold. "We haven't even had time for a game of _wei-jio_ and if I am about to be assigned to an escort mission I will have very little time for games until the mission ends. I seem to recall I am ahead by thirteen wins."

Lisetha stared at him for a moment, not even blinking. Then she said, with just the faintest waver to her voice, "Eleven. Two were draws." She took a bit more than a sip of her wine and once again he found himself staring at the dark staining on her lips, imagining the sharp-sweet taste. "I haven't been at such a disadvantage since before I began my academic studies. I half wonder whether Father was letting me win half the time."

"I very much doubt it," he said, gesturing for her to take her seat the game board. "Remember, I grew up playing against my brother, and that forced me to become a far better player than I otherwise might have."

"I will just have to try harder then," she said, settling down and toying thoughtfully with the medallion at her throat.

"I would be disappointed if you didn't," he replied, picking up a gaming stone, and contemplating his next move.

Lisetha wasn't sure if it was the wine, the emotional exhaustion, or Thrawn was simply _that_ good, but for the twelfth time, she found herself staring at a game with nowhere left for her to go. Her silver token was blocked into a corner, and the rest of the board was a sea of black with only a few sad specks of white trapped among it. She reached for a stone, paused, reached for another, and then sighed, sitting back and reaching for her glass for a restorative sip. "Well. So much for trying harder."

"I believe I have you at my mercy yet again," Thrawn said, raising his own glass in a not-too-mocking salute. The most irritating part was how matter-of-fact he was about it.

Almost too much so. She studied him over her glass, looking for any sign he was still shocked (he hadn't been able to hide that) or angry (she had not sensed any anger, but he was distressingly hard to read) about her surprise. She was still torn between anxiety at his near-non-reaction and the giddy relief of having at least one secret off her conscience, and Thrawn's bizarre return to their normal sort of encounter was not relieving either feeling. Yet again her fingers sought to pluck at the seams of mourning bands that were no longer there, had never been on this brand-new gown,and she reached for her necklace instead. "I suppose I should be grateful you _are_ merciful," she said cautiously. "With as often as you win, you could be very demanding indeed."

"True," he said thoughtfully, studying her much the same way he'd studied her painting before. "Perhaps I should demand a forfeit. It is traditional for a victor to claim spoils."

It was the wine, it had to be, because she did _not_ flush so easily and her breath did not catch at mere words. She drew a deep, steadying breath, trying to find that calming energy Aleishia was always reminding her of, but it didn't help. Her own mind was still violently unsettled, Thrawn was the usual stony mask, beyond that–

Her mind brushed Aleishia's, but the other was unaware and the rush of emotions she caught the edge of, from both the human and from–Serhal? Lisetha was torn between embarrassment at noticing and a strange sort of relief. _Good!_ She had not missed how her guard watched the Jedi since the day they'd rescued her from the wreckage of the battle, the sympathy and eventually longing he'd kept, he thought, under tight control. _Let them both be happy. Someone should have some joy that is not constantly tempered by politics and war._

The touch of a hand on hers startled her back to awareness and she trembled. Thrawn had reached across the table, his fingers tracing ever so lightly across the back of hers. Not grasping or caressing, but testing yet again, finding a boundary and pushing it. "What sort of forfeit did you have in mind?"

He raised an eyebrow, considering. "You've already given me a great secret this evening," he said, his fingers still slowly exploring, lacing through hers. "I don't suppose you have others so valuable you're still withholding."

"A few." She forced herself to smile, wishing for once in her life she had the knack for allure that her sister Kelah did. "But as you say, you've already gained one of those."

"Hm." He rested a fingertip just on the inside of her wrist and she cursed herself for letting her pulse jump. "I shall have to consider this. Unless, perhaps, you have any suggestions?"

Forget feeling her heartbeat. He must have been able to hear it.

The moment held for what seemed like an eternity, and abruptly shattered like crystal exploding as a noise in the hall, voices, made both of them turn. For a brief moment she felt a rush of emotion from Thrawn, hot and intense as the flare of a nova and then ruthlessly contained. He was on his feet, her skirts slowing her just a trace, as Seln appeared in the door from the hall. "I told him, my lady, you weren't to be bothered, but he's never been obedient, not to your father, even–"

"I said I will speak to my sister, old man!" Lorkad pushed past the elderly retainer and Lisetha quashed a white-hot flare of anger herself. "Lisetha, I've just come from Grandfather. Councilor Orkeli was there as well. What is this insanity you and the Eighth–" He stopped, staring, and his eyes narrowed to glittering slits. "You. I can't believe this. Then again I suppose I can, with the Eighth neck-deep in this business."

Thrawn went dangerously still, and Lisetha would have sworn the temperature dropped several degrees. "Lieutenant Rael'or'kadre," he said, his tone perfectly smooth and level and deadly. "You speak to a superior officer in this manner?"

"We aren't on duty now, Mitth'raw'nuruodo," Lorkad snapped. "And my business is with my sister, not with you, and I'll speak to her now, without you present."

Lisetha drew in a breath to object but then caught the flicker of motion low at his side, Thrawn waving her back, and she kept silent.

Thrawn did not take his eyes from her brother. "No, you will not." Beyond her brother's shoulder, she saw Seln's eyes widen, and the old retainer was clearly fighting to hide a grin.

Lorkad froze a moment, and she saw the veins in his neck bulge. "What did you say?" he hissed "How dare you–"

"No, I will _not_ leave," Thrawn continued evenly, "and no, you will not speak to the Aristocra and High Councilor of the Second Family in that tone and making those demands. Not in her own home, before her guest, abusing her servant. Not ever. You shame your uniform and your family, Rael'or'kadre." He could have been carved of stone, except Lisetha could feel just the faintest tremor in him, a leashed animal he was almost choking to death in his effort to keep it under control.

Her brother stared at Thrawn, his jaw clenching, and she saw his fists tighten. "I will not stand here in my family's house and be dressed down by common filth, no matter what rank he's managed to acquire. This is not your patrol ship, and I don't answer to you here. Just because the Eighth's blood is so thin they have to resort to calling you their son–"

" _My_ house," Lisetha interrupted. "And you humiliate our entire family with this behavior, Lorkad. I don't know what poison our grandfather has been filling your head with but Father would be ashamed to see how you treated Seln, or how you speak to a superior officer, even if he were not my _nar'ech'yon_."

She had the distinct pleasure of seeing her brother's face curdle into a mask of impotent, horrified, anger, and the distinctly worrying experience of not being able to read Thrawn's expression at all as his head snapped around at the word: _Intended. Promised. Sworn._ A title used only after the negotiations formally began, when both sides were prepared to quibble over the details of the contract, but the general decision had been made. Thrawn was staring at her, eyes narrowed, and she contained a shiver only through supreme effort.

Lorkad did not even bother trying to contain his emotions. "You can't be serious, sister. You've lost your mind." He tried to step towards her, but Thrawn moved, placing himself silently but immovably between Lisetha and her brother. "Grandfather said you were conspiring with the Eighth to meddle in things that are not our concern. He did not say you'd completely gone insane! This attempt to punish us all, I don't know what for, has gone too far. You're the Second Councilor, not Father's spoiled daughter any more. And what would he think? To spread your legs for baseborn filth–"

Lisetha's own rage almost overwhelmed her, enough she felt the sleepy, startled alarm as elsewhere Aleishia sensed it. It was as nothing, though, compared to the white-hot, deadly anger that for one instant Thrawn could not conceal, not from her and not from Lorkad, who took an involuntary step back as Thrawn stepped forward.

For a long moment, the room was completely silent.

"Leave," Thrawn said quietly.

Lorkad wavered, anger tempered by a growing fear in his eyes. "You cannot–"

"Yes," Thrawn said, still in that quiet, perfectly even, tone. "I can."

Lisetha moved from behind him, some instinct she didn't understand keeping her just at arm's length from them both. "You heard him," and her voice wavered far more, the urge to scream almost overpowering. "Get out. Get out now, Lorkad, go back to our grandfather and listen to the deluded raving of a sick old man if you want, but you will get out of my house _now!_ Before I do something we may all regret." She looked past him at Seln. The old retainer was not bothering to conceal his glee, happy as if a decade's worth of nameday gifts had all come at once. "Seln, my brother is leaving. Escort him out, and do not admit him again until I permit it. I apologize for his treatment of you."

"I don't need to be shown the way," Lorkad said, gathering up what dignity he could manage. The look he gave Thrawn was pure loathing, but when his gaze turned on her, she felt a chill–that look was positively murderous. "Do not think this is the last of it, sister." Thrawn took another, measured, step towards him, and Lorkad almost stumbled back through the door, only turning on his heel when he was well out of reach. Seln paused, and before he followed to make sure the door was well barred behind him, he gave Lisetha a respectful bow-but a deeper one to Thrawn. The other returned the gesture with a tight nod, but otherwise he didn't move, even after they heard the faraway sound of doors closing and being locked tightly.

Lisetha counted, forcing herself to breathe until it came in slow, steady rhythm and not the ragged gasps of anger. The gall, the unmitigated, arrogant, hateful . . . . She was shaking again and made herself stop, focus on the now as Aleishia had trained her, and as she centered herself she became aware that Thrawn had not moved at all. He was still standing, perfectly straight and perfectly still, turned towards where her brother had gone.

The silence went on and became too heavy. "Thrawn," and he didn't move even at the sound of his name. "I apologize. I cannot begin to excuse my brother's behavior–"

Thrawn turned, very slowly, his face that glacial mask of perfect control. "Was he right?"

"I beg your pardon?" Some primal part of her mind was near hysterics, urging her to step back and away, but she held herself still.

Thrawn didn't reply for a minute, taking her in again with that slow scan up and down her body. "That you want to spread your legs for me." His eyes met hers, level and measuring. That tension still ran through him, the barely-contained power, physical and mental, only just in check.

Lisetha suddenly had the sense of being locked in a cage with a very dangerous predator, one who was deciding whether or not to savage her. The most terrifying part, however, was that she did not know whether she wanted him to or not.

They stood a long moment, neither moving. Then she took a deep breath. "As I intend for you to be the father of my heir, it would seem to be a requirement at some point," she said, carefully keeping her tone as light as she could. "Unless you wanted to be terribly clinical about the entire business."

Thrawn didn't reply for a moment, and then, slowly, some of the tension eased from his frame. He moved towards her, not stalking but as if he were still not entirely sure of his control. With a delicacy she had never yet seen him display, he took her hand again and very gently raised it to his chest, pressing her palm over his heart. "I do not think, my _nar'ech'yon_ , that we need to concern ourselves with those details yet."

His heartbeat was steady, no hint of the rage he'd so barely controlled a moment ago. Or had he truly been so calm the entire time? "As you say, intended," was all she said aloud. "And I hope–I had not asked, I told Thaenil we had not discussed those negotiations yet."

"We can hardly back down now," Thrawn said, tone once again calm and at ease. "I have no doubt your brother will make sure everyone he encounters knows. This does mean Thrass will _have_ to be responsible for mission security, as I certainly have a conflict of interest, even without the contract negotiated yet. In a way, though, it makes things far simpler to have them settled."

"I can stop fielding questions about when and whom I'll marry," Lisetha agreed, thinking of the discarded stack of missives out of which she'd plucked the Eighth's. To tweak her mother, no less, her brother had gotten _that_ right in part. "And the Eighth Family can have no doubts about your commitment to their advancement. As far as an heir goes, I can secure my seat and never fear it will fall to my brother's hands." She couldn't even bear to say his name at the moment. The thought of it tasted foul.

From the way Thrawn's hands tightened over hers, she didn't have to say it. "I should warn you, my brother is requesting that our second child be given over to him as an aide-de-camp as soon as they are old enough. He can be irritatingly persistent about things."

"We'll simply have to accommodate him as best as our schedules allow, then," she said. "I think we'll leave that out of the contract, though. And wait on _that_ until after this investigation. I wouldn't want either of you distracted."

Thrawn only smiled thinly. "You've done a very adequate job of that already. Between your . . .guest, and now your brother . . . are there any other surprises you'd like to share now that we've reached an accord?"

_Only one, and now is not the time_. Perhaps she'd be lucky. Perhaps he would never need to know the other, more impossible reason Aleishia stayed, that the servant was in many ways the master. "For now? I'd like to surprise you by winning at _wei-jio_ , but that may be the most improbable occurrence of all. Do you have time for another game?"

"I believe I can make time." He lowered her hand from his heart, but did not release it. As they settled back at the table and began to reset the board, a pleasant lethargy and warmth spread through her limbs, partially the wine, partially the exhaustion of the emotional strain of events, and partially . . . .

Lisetha stopped that train of thought before it could wander too far. Still, it was much, much later, when she was finally alone again, when she realized she could still feel the press of his hands over hers, and the beating of his heart against her palm.


	6. Specters and Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lisetha sees both her past and her future . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you're wondering, yes, I'm positively giddy at the recent news from London. Not only does our beloved Grand Admiral make his return to the canon Star Wars universe, we're getting his new backstory from Timothy Zahn himself! That said: continue to consider this Legends EU, not the new material (as obviously, I haven't seen that yet.)

  


 

"I don't know why they don't get on with it." Aleishia spoke without opening her eyes. It was a strange feeling, once again having a body pressed to hers, arms cradling her as she half-slept, half-basked in the delightful warmth. Serhal's skin was in fact cooler than hers, as one way the Chiss had adapted to their inhospitable world seemed to be an appropriately-lower body temperature, but he did at least make an excellent insulator. "She's mad for him, and he isn't much better."

"I would think by now you'd know with our people, nothing is ever that simple." Serhal sounded far too wide-awake considering what they'd been doing. She rolled over to face him, and found him looking at her, fully out of his good eye, the damaged one mostly darkened. It had always seemed rude to ask both how the injury had happened and whether he could see at all. Why he had never sought the advanced medical intervention that was certainly available, she knew, or at least Lisetha had said: "Pride." He didn't seem prideful now, she thought, tracing her fingers across his cheek and through the blue-black hair he still kept in a military cut. "And you certainly know that our Lady can't indulge in affairs of the heart carelessly. I agree, she's fond of him, but that's not the important part. These things cannot be rushed."

"It's ridiculous," Aleishia sniffed, burrowing against him and resting her head on his shoulder. He stiffened, his arm coming up awkwardly around her, and she had to stifle a laugh at his consternation. How a man, of whatever race (and now she was certain in practice as well as theory there were few functional differences between theirs) could be so . . . enthusiastic about the act itself and so charmingly awkward afterwards, the Force only knew. Mihall hadn't been so anxious, and he'd been as much a virgin as she was their first time while Serhal certainly wasn't.

_Mihall_ . . . . A shudder rippled through her, and no amount of steadiness in the Force could suppress the trembling. After all they had sacrificed, all they'd found with each other, to die trying and failing to protect her, her and their child . . . perhaps the Masters were right, attachment simply was too painful and lead too close to darkness.

Serhal was, she realize, stroking her hair, not saying anything but his hold had tightened. "You're thinking of them," he said quietly. "Your husband and child."

A denial died unspoken on her lips. "I apologize. It's no reflection on you, I promise, it's only there was no one before Mihall, and no one since until now." She closed her eyes and let her breathing fall into a rhythm with his, more soothing than trying to reach out with the Force at the moment. "He's gone, and I can't betray him, but being with someone else, caring for them, feels as if I am."

"I understand." He didn't entirely, she could tell. And perhaps she'd misread the matter. While Lisetha herself, due to her role as heir with all the obligations that went with it, had never indulged in affairs, she had while discussing their disparate cultures explained that far from being prohibited, among the lower ranks and especially in the military, "recreation" was considered normal and of no emotional consequence as a rule. It was simply a recognized base need and for those who had nothing riding on their choice of mates something to be relieved between willing partners. Provided the chain of command was not violated, there were no disciplinary consequences. Aleishia had been mildly dumbfounded, but in some ways it was not that different from the Jedi code. Though the Chiss relied on their seemingly-innate discipline to avoid destructive attachment, while the Jedi assumed that no sentient being could tread so close to the edge and not fall and never fully trusted any who tried. Perhaps Serhal had simply been so limited in his choice of partners, she had been convenient, and in need of comforting herself.

Then she thought back to the look on his face, his sense in the Force, as he'd done Lisetha's bidding and escorted her to her room. When she'd moved to replace the cowl and veil, hiding herself from the world, Serhal had stopped her, gently lowering her hand, and for once he'd let emotions show on his scarred face. And even if he hadn't, his sense in the Force was clear: longing, desire, sympathy, loneliness, and when she'd made herself think she realized she had noticed all of them before at various moments when he let his guard slip. Kissing him had been the simplest acknowledgment, and his response had made words unnecessary.

Perhaps now they were. "Thank you." When he tilted his head inquisitively, she clarified, "I've been very lonely here. Don't mistake me, I'm not ungrateful and the longer I am here, the more I realize how dangerous this is for Lisetha, for you, for Seln. But being an alien, alone in an entire sector . . . it's not something I've ever experienced before. This is . . . comforting."

"I'm glad." There was an odd note to his voice, as if he weren't entirely sure how to take that. "I've seen how sad you are and I know in a small way what it is to be alone. With no insult meant to your late husband, I've hoped for some time that perhaps eventually we might find companionship together." He paused, and she felt that same sort of awkwardness that Lisetha often had when she was trying to answer a question in training that required her to examine her feelings too closely. "You are very exotic. Very beautiful."

Aleishia felt a very pleasant and very un-Jedi-like flush of pleasure as he stroked a lock of her hair, the dark brown part, not the streak of white that had appeared at some point between being knocked out on Khnum and regaining consciousness under Lisetha's care. "I suppose to you I am exotic," she said. "I've never felt exotic before. To me, your skin is much stranger than mine. There are some races with blue skin, but none who look so much like humans physically. And none with eyes like yours."

Serhal's lip twisted just a trace. "And you haven't seen many of us with eyes like mine, either."

She flinched, looking down. "Forgive me."

"You didn't put out my eye." He kept caressing her hair. " _Your_ eyes are very strange indeed. I don't know how your people manage, the way they show every thought in your head. And your skin . . . ." Now he traced a finger down her throat, over her collarbone. "You remind me of a children's tale. A maiden carved of snow and ice, brought to life."

"A bit warmer than that, I hope!" She giggled, and when his smile in return was warmer and had that same soft edge as it had when he'd stopped her putting her veil back on, she felt confident enough to kiss him again. Both arms came around her, pulling her over him, and from the way he kissed her back, he found her warm enough indeed. Aleishia briefly stretched out with the Force, habit and duty making her check on her apprentice again, but the only sense of Lisetha was residual irritation at her brother, and that contented focus on their latest game. _You have no idea what you two are missing,_ but if her apprentice heard her, she didn't know. And as Serhal tightened his hold, Aleishia temporarily ceased to care.

Lisetha sighed and set the data reader down, rubbing wearily at the bridge of her nose. The preparations for their inspection tour were proceeding, and she would have been the first to admit that this had been her idea and therefore she was the one who ought to bear the brunt of the details, but no matter how great her concern, six months' worth of ore-production records from the Stiggond Belt facilities were mind-numbing. She did at least finally see a particular pattern, one particular ore, cienium, that was being produced at rates decidedly inconsistent with the mining survey reports' amounts. And there was a report, neat and precise and utterly professional, detailing the worker transports the Defense Force had escorted into the belt, most of which returned to their origin points empty. Workers were going into the Belt in significant numbers, but they were not leaving it in the same way, and when she cross-referenced the supply runs coming from the agricultural-production facilities, the amount of food coming in was not increasing enough to account for an increased population. And the official reports, monthly and weekly, mentioned noting about accidents, illnesses, deaths or desertion. With that much manpower, they ought to be maintaining production levels at the very least.

Her eyes wandered to the signature on the report. Mitth'raw'nuruodo had signed his full name and rank, the appropriate family sigil affixed, utterly professional. The information within was as detailed and precise as she could have expected from any officer, and yet she imagined she heard his distinct voice in the choice of how he presented the required information. She'd found herself directed to a conclusion without any clear sense of being manipulated. He'd simply laid out what he knew and somehow it lead to what she suspected was his own final opinion. That included a notation meant for his brother but which he clearly intended for her to see which requested more intense security than they might have expected, even for a trip involving several members of the High Council.

Sighing, she turned from the reader and picked a sheet of her good paper from its box. Her head needed clearing, and trying to meditate right now would only frustrate her. Practicing calligraphy at least gave her something to focus on. Instead of their own elegant script, though, she dipped her brush and began slowly tracing out the blocky, awkward letters of Aleishia's strange alphabet. Her writing was as wobbly as a toddler's first scribbles with a charstick and she took a slow calming breath, making herself steady her hand and concentrate. _Aurek . . . besh_ . . . _cresh . . . ._ All ugly angles with no way to flow one letter into the next. _Dorn, esk, forn, grek . . ._ she didn't even like the sounds of the names. Why such an awkward, inelegant form of writing? _Leth,_ the first letter of her own corename, and her father's. He would have laughed to see her, free of any authority in her own home, dutifully making herself practice with a brush and paper. The bristles made a soft, almost imperceptible whisper as they stroked across the sheet of parchment and she let her mind drift, her thoughts floating, spinning, listening for whispers from the Force . . . .

" _I don't_ want _to practice calligraphy, Papa." Her nine-year-old self, old enough to know better but young enough she thought she just might get away with it, stamped her foot. "Why do I have to?"_

_Lanhar, seated at the table where her adult-self sat now, smiled just a bit more warmly than was decorous. "Because, little one, if we do not preserve our arts, they will be lost."_

" _Well, someone else can preserve writing with a silly brush" she sniffed. "And dancing with a fan, and singing, and playing the_ tsanishen _, and all these other boring things Mama makes me do." She looked longingly at the spacescape hanging over his shoulder in the alcove "Flying is exciting. So is learning to fight with the lance. Or ice-climbing. Why can't I do those? No one cares if I know how to pour a cup of chai prettily!"_

" _Someday when it's time to find you a husband, he might care a bit. His family will." Father had been looking at a data reader, too, which he now set aside. "No one expects you to become an artist or a musician or dancer, little one, but these are arts our people created. They're a sign we are civilization, the same as our gardens are." He must have seen the rebellious expression because he said, "Do you understand how difficult they are to create? We are highborn and we can afford to create indulgences like decorative gardens because our people have learned to do more than survive and fight and as the leaders. We have a responsibility to preserve and nurture those arts, whether it's a stone garden, a proper tea service, or a beautiful piece of calligraphy. We are fortunate to be born to the responsibility. Many are not. Some work all their lives to earn such rights. Your mother's great-grandmother was born to a common farmer. She would have considered your trials luxuries. "_

" _I didn't ask to be born responsible," Lisetha sulked. "Besides, I thought our responsibility was building weapons and ships for the Defense Force. You don't need to know how to paint to do that."_

" _No one asks to be born what they are," Lanhar said, rising from his chair. "We all have our part to play. You, little one, were fortunate enough to be born without having to rise by work. You were born to serve the Council. Someday, the lives of all our people may depend on choices you must make. Knowing our arts and culture and history teaches you what you are preserving."_

_Lisetha, fingers still stained with ink, grimaced before quickly schooling her face to a more decorous expression. "I still think someone else can do it. I'm going to have to be your aide when you take Grandmother's seat, and learn how to be a Councilor, and I'm going to have to marry someone whose family needs to ally with us so I can have a baby who'll grow up to do the exact same things, and you say I can't even go to the academy and serve in the Defense Force until you need me . . . I could at least not have to do all the boring things! I could at least get to choose that."_

_Lanhar studied her for a long minute, and she was reasonably sure she was going to be practicing calligraphy until her fingers fell off. Then he stood, coming out from behind his work table. "Come along, daughter. I believe it's time to show you something."_

_Lisetha adored flying with her father, even when she couldn't quite figure out why she was being given such a treat when she'd expected discipline. Now they were traveling higher and farther than she was used to in the small flyer and her confusion only increased when it became clear they were bound for one of the defense platforms. This one was primarily a research station, most of the uniforms bearing the green and gold colors of the Second Family on their insignia, and fewer of the burgundy and gray of the Eighth. She wasn't sure she liked the way everyone deferred to them, either, though of course they respected Papa, how could they not? It was still strange to be the object of such respectful bows and snaps to attention, though, even only as his shadow. Her father didn't stop or speak more than a moment with anyone, clearly moving with a destination in mind._

_Finally they came to an observation deck, and Lanhar guided her to the viewports. "Look down, daughter. Tell me what you see."_

_Leaning down, she saw Csilla below them, glimmering like a milkstone gem, whites and blues shining from the snow-covered surface. From this distance, it was hard to tell there was anything but the snowy wastes of the glacial fields. At a lower altitude the shafts and passages and ventilation to the deep caverns that were in fact their entire civilization were more obvious, but from here their world seemed little more than a sphere of ice. In memory, it pulsed with the Force, a glow laid over a glow, strung like a gem on a necklace in the web that was all life in the universe. "I see Csilla," her child-self said._

" _This is our home. Underneath that ancient ice is our people's entire existence. All our history, our blood, our art and our science, everything that we became since our ancestors first found this place a thousand generations ago and chose to stay." Her father was taller in memory, she thought, than he had seemed at the time, wiser than his years, his eyes glowing with something other than their natural light. "Now look up and out, daughter. What do you see?"_

" _Stars." From here, without the atmosphere, the stars did not twinkle and sparkle. There were tiny pickpricks letting light through a background blacker than night, blacker than the darkest ink any painter could ever use. "Space. Other planets. Darkness."_

" _All the galaxy. All the worlds of the Ascendancy, and all the worlds beyond," and as her father said that, she felt a dizzying sense of being on precipice, some great vacuum pulling her out and away towards those billions upon billions of specks of starstuff. "Beings we rule, beings we have yet to encounter, beings we cannot even imagine. Some are our allies. Some may become allies some day. Some are dangerous."_

" _Some threaten our very existence. Ours, and others."_

_Lisetha turned, her now-self again, an adult's height, the Force flowing around and through her and chilling her. Thrawn was beside her, looking down at their world and up at the stars. "Our world seems so fragile from here," she said. "So alone."_

" _We make ourselves too alone," Thrawn said, and she realized she did not recognize the uniform he was wearing. It should have been gray, with the burgundy and gray stitching of his Family, but it was olive drab, with an insignia that meant nothing to her over his heart. "We say we rule and protect, but truly we hide within our borders. Too many have forgotten the strength it took to survive here and that we succeeded by taking risks."_

" _Our world is far more fragile than we care to think," said her father, and she was a child again as she turned back to him. "Everything that we have created, our society and our people, we attained by carving it from a world hostile to us. We preserve it, daughter, all of it. The art, the writing, the music, the language . . . all of them, though, come from that which we must preserve above all else. Do know what that is, daughter?"_

" _Our people." She stared down at the ghostly expanse. Deep beneath the glaciers, she could_ feel _the shining ebb and flow of life, what adult-her knew was the Force, binding them to the rest of the galaxy as it did all life._

"All _of our people," her father said. "Not just our family. Not just those who look to our house to serve it. Not just those whose talent and vision raises them to our status. Each Family has its role to fill, but we can never forget that it is for all Chiss."_

" _And all those we have taken under our Ascendance." Thrawn did not look at her, adult-her again. "The dangers out there," and she followed his gaze to the darkness between the stars, "threaten far more than just our world and our people. We chose to rule them. We owe them our protection."_

" _Those responsibilities you resent," and her father did not sound harsh, just gently chiding, "are not just the price we pay for a fortunate accident of birth. We keep our people's arts alive to share. We serve on the Council instead of following our wishes because before the Council, there was only disunity and struggle. We marry to strengthen our line and to ensure that our people will always be cared for and protected. We were born to serve, not to rule. Discipline is part of that service."_

_Lisetha stared out at the shining surface of their planet again. "What about when the threat is within?"_

" _Then we must cut it out." Thrawn sounded certain, absolute. Now the uniform he wore was different, pure white, with gold at his shoulders, still a cut and style she did not recognize. "And when it comes from without, we must go to meet it. There are far too many dangers waiting among those stars. We must confront them on our terms, if our people are to be protected."_

" _Alone?" She turned to face him. "We are a powerful people now, but not that strong."_

" _Not alone," and she could feel the truth of it in the Force. "The Council must be made to see what is coming, and that we must act together and with allies if we are to win."_

_She looked from Thrawn, in that strange uniform, to her father, in Consular robes instead of his flight suit. "If we do not? If the Council can't be made to see?"_

" _Defeat," said her father, with the Force in his voice._

" _Destruction," said Thrawn. "Not just of our people, but billions."_

_Lisetha could feel the depth of space in the Force, dizzying, infinite, spreading out beyond Csilla, the Ascendancy, towards the far edges of galactic space and inward to the Core. There were billions of points of light, trillions of life-forms on tiny worlds orbiting each. Humans, like Aleishia, races she knew, races she could not name, all part of the vast net that was the Force–except a fold of darkness. Something out there did not belong, and it was distressingly near their space, their people, the very ones her father, or the Force speaking through her father's memory, had just said they needed to protect. It drank in the light, bent space around itself like a black hole, absorbed warmth and pressed it into itself, somehow deepening its darkness._

_Within the blackness, glowing insectoid eyes watched her. A voice that sounded familiar, like her father but not, murmured something alluring and comforting and summoning her. The bending darkness beckoned, even as tendrils of it stroked across the intervening space, reaching for the Core, reaching for home–_

_There were arms around her waist and she opened her eyes, seeing the white sleeves of that strange uniform and knowing it was Thrawn who'd pulled her back, who saw the same darkness and heard it, too, despite having no trace of the Force in him. She pressed herself against him, mind to mind and body to body, the sense that of a solid rock, set so deeply not even the greatest glacier would move it, and so long as she clung to it, she would be safe. They would all be safe. "They will come," he murmured. "And there are more beyond the galactic rim, just as alien, just as dangerous. But they can be stopped."_

_She tried to lean closer still but he was no longer behind her and she was looking out over a city, one she had never seen before. No world in the Ascendancy had so many buildings, so tall that she could barely see the tops and she couldn't see the bottoms, only deep shadowed canyons that vanished far below. And there were beings, more than she had ever seen and a thousand races she couldn't name, packing plazas and walkways below, banners (some in gray and black, some in white and gold, none with sigils she knew) fluttering from balconies, cheering and shouting and overhead hundreds of craft, some shooting off fireworks. Thrawn stood near her, looking out over the crowds and the celebration, still in that white uniform like none she had ever seen. Another figure in white was beside him, a woman, a human like Aleishia, also dark-haired but much younger and slight of build, and strong in the Force. Both were looking out at the crowds, clearly the subject of much of the cheering. Lisetha felt a surge of jealousy, not for the adulation, and reached out, touching his arm. Thrawn placed his hand over hers, drawing her close, and in the vision she knew the envy was absurd._

_It was night and the stars were strange, but they were barely visible anyway with the sparkling lights of the massive buildings and the continued displays of fireworks and lights. Thrawn was holding her again, but they were alone on the balcony. She was resting her head against his chest, and she knew she was as perfectly safe as she was ever likely to be. Looking down, she saw a lower plaza beneath, and there was a small group of people on it._

_Of them, two caught her eye. One was the first of their kind she had seen in this strange vision of an alien city, a young Chiss woman dressed in black, her hair in a long braid and the unmistakable hilt of a lightsaber at her belt. She shone in the Force, all pale strength and glowing like Csilla did from orbit, and Lisetha felt a surge of certainty–their daughter, this was their child, hers and Thrawn's. Strong and beautiful and . . . sad. Beside her, speaking words she couldn't hear in the vision, was a human male, with gold hair and eyes the color of blue ice, but his sense in the Force . . . he glowed with the strength of the sun, of two suns, casting her daughter into eclipse and burning so bright her own small talent seemed nothing in comparison. And yet, it was a pure, good kind of strength with no self-serving malice in it, and even the creatures that dwelt in the shadows could not have stood against it._

_They_ had _not, she knew. They had fallen, and it had been this strange Jedi and her daughter,_ her _daughter, who had accomplished much of it. And they had come together in this task because . . . Thrawn's arms tightened around her, holding her as if he intended never to let her go. She felt no desire to escape. Why would she? But why here, wherever here was, and not Csilla? Once again she was looking down through the viewports of the station, her father to her right, Thrawn to her left, staring at the glowing white globe of their world._

" _To serve requires sacrifice," her father said._

" _None can be too great," Thrawn said._

"Lisetha?"

She opened her eyes with a violent start, feeling as if she'd been plunged back into her body as a leap into a pool of icy water. Her calligraphy brush dangled from her fingertips. On the parchment, she'd clearly drifted off into her fugue, or trance, of whatever it had been, when she had reached the compound letter _thesh_. A needle-thin trail of ink drew away down the page like a fine crack spreading through ice. That at least looked like her typical efforts at calligraphy.

The ink was dry, the brush bristles stiff. Her muscles felt sore and her back ached, as if she'd been sitting in one position too long. However long the vision had lasted, it had been enough for the ink to set. Aleishia was staring at her, her veil hanging loose, and Lisetha could feel the gentle but concerned probing in the Force as her Master spoke. "What's wrong?" the Jedi said, gently taking the brush from Lisetha's stiff fingers. "You were so still, I thought you were asleep, or . . . something was very wrong."

"I was . . . meditating, I suppose," Lisetha said slowly. "Only I saw things. Myself as a child, when my father took me to show me Csilla from orbit. But . . . I was an adult, too, and Thrawn was there, only . . . ." She shook her head, and tried to clear her mind and let the details come back. "He wore uniforms I don't know, and we were on a world I've never seen before, a great cityscape with buildings so tall you couldn't have seen the ground floor and the sky at the same time. And there was the darkness. We both saw it, and we were in this city celebrating its defeat." Part of her wanted to say she had also seen their child. "And I had the strangest feeling that the crowd was cheering for Thrawn."

"Hm." Those ridiculous eyes of hers were giving away the mirth she was clearly struggling to hide. "Are you sure you had a vision? Or were you just dreaming of glory for your future husband?"

"Very funny." She frowned at the ink stains on her fingertips. "And I saw them. Out there, the dark ones. They called to me in my father's voice and I would have touched their minds, I think, only Thrawn pulled me back. He understands. At least, I think the Force is trying to tell me he does."

Aleishia sat down, something she did in Lisetha's presence only when they were alone. Her sense in the Force was abruptly somber. "What else did you see?"

A cold shudder rippled through her before she could contain herself. "Everything. The galaxy. Life. A planet that was nothing but a giant city." There was a flare of emotion from the Jedi castaway. "You know it?"

"I couldn't be sure without seeing what you saw, but . . . it sounds like Coruscant. Like my home." Those expressive dark eyes of hers were strangely inward-looking now. "You say Thrawn was there, in this vision? And you?"

"I think I was. It was so strange . . . he was on a balcony, and there was a woman there, and the crowds were cheering for them both. Celebrating a great victory." She closed her eyes, trying to remember details. "Then we were alone on the same balcony, at night, and people were still celebrating, and I saw–" Her eyes opened, and she couldn't control the unreasoning smile at the vision-memory. "I saw our daughter. Thrawn's and mine. She wore a lightsaber, Master, and she was talking too someone so bright and strong in the Force I could barely look at him. And they had helped achieve the victory." Then she remembered the last words. No sacrifice too great . . . sacrifice of what?

Aleishia blinked, shaking her head slowly. "I've seen some visions, but nothing so complex. But the Force can show us possible futures, even though they're always in motion. Were you pondering a particular question?"

"Only the usual." Lisetha grimaced. "But if I saw our child helping win a great war, if Thrawn stood at one hand while my father was on the other, how could I interpret it as anything but a sign I should marry him?" She looked hard at Aleishia, wishing she had even half the training her Master did. "Can you see?"

For an instant, she thought her Master would refuse. Then she sighed, and the odd eyes closed as she took a deep breath and her sense in the Force became warmer, steadier. "I can try." In spite of herself and the circumstances, Lisetha watched, with her eyes and in the Force. Aleishia constantly insisted she was nothing but an apprentice herself, one who had abandoned her vocation at that, but at times like this, when she was instructing Lisetha or performing some task in the Force, her serene aura, the way her own mind and spirit seemed to swirl easily into the dance of that universal energy, she seemed like a creature of an ancient story: one of the gods made manifest, or a force of nature come to life. Part of Lisetha marveled at the power and the unity that she struggled for herself, and an unpleasant part of her that she tried hard to suppress gnawed on itself in envy.

Aleishia's eyes opened, and Lisetha could tell she wasn't seeing anything in the room with them. "I see darkness. Death. Loss, exile . . . he is far from home and alone. And so many battles. Humans, aliens . . .a Jedi." She closed her eyes again. "Treachery, betrayal . . . but hope. And–" Her eyes snapped open this time and her gaze was fixed on Lisetha. "Your daughter. Important, somehow, but that's all I see."

"If I continue my present course." Lisetha looked down at the alien script she'd be tracing on her parchment. "If I don't . . . ." She traced out letters again, _thesh . . .resh . . . aurek . . . ._

_Blood. Blood on a white uniform, heart's-blood red, and a galaxy wrenched as a thousand terrible things saw their opening. And somewhere alone, far, far away, she screamed, knowing without knowing how that this was her fault, her terrible fault . . . ._

Aleishia was shaking her, hand raised for a slap if necessary. Lisetha pushed her away, stumbling to her feet. "What did I say?"

"Say, nothing," and while Aleishia had her voice under control, her hands were trembling as she picked up the brush from were Lisetha had apparently thrown it. "Screamed, and in the Force, too, _that_ you did. What did you see?"

Lisetha couldn't formulate a reply. Her fingers were tracing over the bone sculpture, the smooth, rounded contours she knew so well comforting and grounding her. "I saw blood. Death. My fault." She knew she was speaking so quietly Aleishia might not hear her. "I know now what I have to do."

There was a quiet _hmph_ from the door, and before Lisetha had even turned all the way Aleishia had her veil back in place, even though it was only Seln. "Begging your pardon, my Lady, but your mother and your sister are wanting to see you." The elderly retainer was doing his best to maintain his suitably-decorous calm, but as always when it came to his lady's family, there was a distinct air of displeasure.

"Show them in, Seln. Aleishia, put these writing things away. I've had enough calligraphy for one day." Her Master's shoulders twitched, probably a suppressed laugh at how easily she switched roles, but she picked up the ink stick and slab, the brush, and most importantly the sheet of parchment marked with the Aurebesh lettering and returned them all to the writing box. Lisetha smoothed her robe front and re-seated herself at the table, picking up the data reader she'd set aside and trying to look as if she had been studiously pondering the readout. Her fingers traced over the comforting contours of her medallion, and she pushed aside thoughts of its giver. Difficult to do, reading his words in the report, wearing his gift against her skin, and with the shadowy visions swirling in her mind.

Seleka appeared in the doorway, dressed more for practical at-home life than formal calls. Her sister, Telk'ela'harana, was in colors a shade too bright and robes a trace too fine for someone studying to be an archivist. Kelah was not unattractive, but the slightly sour expression she wore did not enhance her not-entirely-refined features. Like Lisetha, she had their father's height, but the small close-set eyes and pursed mouth were very much Fourth Family. Not a completely unappealing combination, as testified by the number of suitors she was always keeping on a string, but even if Lisetha were not being vain, she knew she had been more fortunate there.

In the intelligence category, it was less that Kelah had not been gifted, but rather opted not to exercise it.

Lisetha did her best to keep her expression impassive as they entered. "Mother. Kelah. This is a surprise."

"You can't imagine I haven't spoken to your brother," Seleka said without preamble. "Or my father."

"I have no reason to think you wouldn't." She glanced at Aleishia, who had retreated to an unobtrusive corner, her veil neatly in place. "Would you care for some refreshment? I can send the servant." _If I do, make sure Ser'halis is within shouting distance._

_He always is,_ but she also sensed the agreement.

"We're not here for chai!" Kelah dropped into a chair, more like a disobedient child than a young lady. "You didn't really do it, did you? You're not going to marry _him!_ "

"You haven't negotiated a contract," Seleka said before Lisetha could formulate a reply beyond a raised eyebrow. "Calling him _nar'ech'yon_ does not make it a binding fact."

"Ah," she said, as if it were really a surprise. "That's the reason for this unexpected visit."

"Of course it is!" Kelah grimaced, but somehow managed to at least do that prettily. "Lisetha, you can't marry Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Do you know what the other officers say?"

"'Yes, Commander,' if they're speaking to him, one would hope," Lisetha said drily, and she could feel through the Force how Aleishia had to choke down a laugh.

" _Sister,"_ and if the situation hadn't been so irritating the seriousness of her moan would have been amusing. "He's arrogant, and reckless, and he doesn't know his place, no officer outside his patrol group trusts him."

"I'm more interested in what the crew serving under him think," Lisetha said. "No disproportionate requests for transfers, no complaints filed by his own subordinates. The sectors to which he's been assigned are in good order and pacified. His performance has been such the Eighth Family has chosen to elevate him not just as a merit-son, but a trial-son. Perhaps these officers might simply be envious of his ability and success?"

"He has dangerous ideas, daughter," Seleka said flatly. "Kelah has spoken with officers who know him. I do not think you have adequately thought this through."

"Flirted with them, you mean." Lisetha felt what patience she had beginning to wear very thin. "Tell me, how many of these objecting officers are still lieutenants? Or ensigns?" From the way her sister's gaze rolled towards the ceiling, a significant percentage if not all of them. "And how many, precisely, are trial-sons or daughters? And how many are blood-offspring who have no hope yet of attaining Commander's rank?" There was just enough of a pause she didn't really need the answer.

"Lisetha . . . ." When her mother resorted to core names, she was getting desperate. "This is not a wise political match. The Eighth's blood is weaker than most. Elevating someone so truly common–do you even know who his birth family is?–is a sign of desperation. It's true, the Second and Eighth have traditionally been closely tied, but now is not the time to reestablish those bonds. If nothing else you are putting the immediate future of your siblings at risk. This investigation you and Mitth'aen'ilian have started is bad enough. Binding the families by a marriage contract of any kind will make matters worse. Your grandfather is deeply concerned."

Her siblings? Kelah was pouting, but that was normal, and Lisetha knew she had no particular suitor in mind yet as a prospective husband. Which left one. "What daughter of the Sixth is Pherek planning to ask after for my brother?" She still resisted even saying Lorkad's name. The insult was too fresh.

Seleka blinked, but controlled any surprise otherwise. "Naef'aer'ihnar. A third daughter, a year younger than your brother."

"If my brother wishes to marry, he has failed to inform me. If the Sixth has expressed an interest, they have failed approach the head of my brother's family–me. Unless," and part of her felt simply spiteful, part simply hoped it was true, "my brother wishes to give all responsibility for himself to the Fourth. I would not, if that were the case, offer any objection. In fact, if he so desires it, that might be best for all concerned as for the moment I cannot conceive of allowing him back into this house, let alone my good graces."

She probably enjoyed the expression on her mother and sister's faces a little more than she should have. Kelah was merely stunned–she simply wouldn't have thought her sister would consider allowing their brother to formally become a younger son of the Fourth Family. Seleka, though, looked as if she had been physically slapped. To make such a transition would mean even if Lisetha did not marry and had no heir, her brother would not be next in line for her seat. He would be behind Kelah and her children, and there was always the possibility that without issue of her own, Lisetha could choose a trial-son or trial-daughter as her heir.

"Daughter . . . ." And Lisetha couldn't tell if her mother was struggling to control shock or anger or some combination of both. "Your brother was simply concerned for our family's honor and your father's memory–"

A flush of heat, accompanied by a rush of anger that she could feel made Aleishia flinch, prompted Lisetha to slam her hands flat on the table. "Do not speak of my brother and our father in the same sentence right now. Father would have been humiliated and ashamed of Rael'or'kadre. My _brother_ abused our retainer, insulted Mitth'raw'nuruodo, my intended husband his superior officer, and accused me of lewd wantonness in front of Thrawn _and_ my retainer. In my own house! Father would have died of shame if he'd witnessed it. And while we are speaking of Father," and she silenced an attempt to protest with a sharp gesture, "he would not only be ashamed of these objections, he would _approve_ of Thrawn, and he would understand my decision., which is this." She rose, feeling more than anger. Once again, she felt herself on a dizzying precipice, that black _nothing_ in space calling to her, and Thrawn's arms around her, pulling her back. The Force seemed to pulse through her, emphasizing the rightness of her choice. "I _will_ marry Mitth'raw'nuruodo. When Thaenil and I have returned from this trip, we three will discuss the final details of any contract, but I can assure you it is nothing but a formality at this point. I _will_ marry Thrawn, or I will marry no one."

There was a long silence. Lisetha felt a giddy lightness, and a distinct sense seized her–somewhere in the Force, a path that lead to infinite destruction slammed shut. Another, this one far murkier and which she could not see clearly, was now the only way open before them. There was darkness, fear, terror, loss, death–and hope, and a city, a planet, a galaxy celebrating a great victory, but she could not see the details.

She could not see if she was there. But one thing was certain.

Thrawn was.

She realized her mother and sister were staring at her, and more astonishingly she could feel Aleishia's eyes boring into hers from behind the camsilk veil. Kelah looked completely poleaxed, and perhaps even just a touch admiring. For the first time, her elder sister had risen up and truly stood in their father's footsteps and nothing Seleka or Lorkad could have said would mean a thing. Kelah might have dreamed of being that dramatic, but she would never have actually dared.

Seleka, for her part, seemed to shrink in on herself. It was impossible to say whether it was the shock of Lisetha's announcement, or whether in some way she truly saw, for the first time, that her daughter was not her child any more. She was Aristocra and High Councilor of the Second Family, and her word in their house was law, and now she was asserting it.

For a long moment, no one moved. Finally, Seleka nodded. "As you say, High Councilor. I wish you and your _nar'ech'yon_ a successful match."

Kelah looked uneasily from her mother to her sister, before nodding a little less respectfully. "So do I. Only, sister . . . ." She picked at the cuffs of her robe.

"Don't worry, little sister," Lisetha said, easing herself back into her chair. It was less dramatic, and besides her legs had started to tremble. "I can assure you, your suitors are not going to vanish simply because I married someone who outranks them. Especially not if my brother fails to earn his way back into my good graces." She kept her hands pressed flat to the table, hoping to stop the trembling. "It's a shame, though, that Mitth'ras'saffis is only a merit adoption and has no interest in a dynastic marriage. He's a Syndic, after all. You could have a husband who outranks mine."

Kelah, to her credit, actually looked mildly intrigued at the notion, rather than horrified at the thought of a commoner. Seleka only shook her head, and rose. "Kelah, wait outside for me." Her younger sister looked as if she were about to protest, but she obeyed. Seleka turned back to her older daughter. "I am not going to protest. You are Aristocra, you may do as you like. Only . . . ." Something seemed to soften in her expression, a sad weight pulling her shoulders down. "Lisetha, you say your father would approve. Are you sure?"

An acid response was on the tip of her tongue, but Lisetha made herself pause. She felt a nudge, too, gentle pressure soothing her temper, and she controlled the urge to give Aleishia a dirty look only barely. _I_ am _calm, Master. See how calm I am!_ "Yes, Mother. I am sure. You may think what you like of Thrawn's birth, his family, his popularity in the officer corps. But . . . ." She sighed. "He is intelligent and honorable. His crew respect him. Thaenil and her Family have chosen to elevate him even beyond his brother." She saw the faint skepticism in her mother's eyes. "But what Father would have cared about is that Thrawn serves our people. He will never put himself, his Family, his career, or me or even our children before duty to the Chiss people. And you know Father would have valued that over any other concern."

Seleka nodded slowly, her gaze still downcast. "Will he make you happy, daughter?"

Lisetha once again had to stop herself from a flippant reply. It was strange to hear her mother ask such a . . . personal, emotional, question. They had never really spoken like that. But she thought of her parents, the way her mother had always smiled, gently touched her father's arm, how her father had so often gone out of his way to find something–a new flower, a scroll of poetry, a new feature for the garden–that would make her mother happy. And, of course, they had three children, not the requisite two.

And there had been the day when officers of the Defense Force had come their door, bringing news of the crash. Lisetha had immediately found herself swept into Council business, declaring official mourning, assuming the role of head of her Family, overseeing the funerary rites . . . and in the midst of it, not seeing how her mother (surrounded as she'd been by her own relatives from the Fourth) had spent the first days of mourning in a sort of fugue. The day they had placed the stele in its niche in the hall, Seleka had gone from the house to her parents', and not returned even for a visit for weeks. It was as if without Lanhar, she simply couldn't bear to be in what had been her home for more than twenty years.

Lisetha thought of the aching void she'd felt when she'd been certain Thrawn would leave once she had revealed her near-treason in hiding an alien among her servants. And the cold, hard anger he'd shown as he'd stepped between her and her brother, the righteous indignation not only over the insult to himself and to her to but to Seln.

And the way her breath had caught, not only when his fingers had twined with hers, but when he'd calmly pressed her hand to his heart. The way he looked at the Vercastorannix as if in a trance, drinking in the exquisite details and colors. The ridiculous charade on the defense platform, as if dingy coveralls and walking with a slouch could have hidden his identity.

"Yes," she said, looking at her mother. "Perhaps not all the time, but I think we can be happy."

Seleka sighed. "Then I mean it: I wish you, my daughter, a successful match, well-negotiated and long-lasting. Whatever it may bring." She gave the appropriate bow a daughter of the Fourth Family should give to the Aristocra of the Second, and vanished out the door.

Once again, Lisetha found herself counting and listening, waiting until she was certain they were once more alone before turning to Aleishia. "That went . . . better than I expected."

Aleishia removed her veil again. "Yes. Given your rather dramatic declaration, I expected far more fireworks."

"I meant it, you know." Lisetha found the tremors had stopped. If anything, she felt calmer, more at peace, than she had in a very long time. "And the Force seems to think I am making the correct decision." She looked down at the report on her data reader, in Thrawn's cool, precise language, and fought the urge to comm him and tell him to come to her tonight. The sooner the marriage was formally negotiated, the more likely they were to avoid any further interference.

Aleishia, for her part, only took down a data pad and placed it near Lisetha's elbow, knowing without being asked she'd want to begin making notes, for the journey, for packing, and undoubtedly for after. If she really had been a servant, Lisetha mused, she would have been an outstanding one. There was a faint air of skepticism, or perhaps it was unease, but she brushed off Lisetha's tentative touch with the Force gently but firmly. "Let us hope, then, that the Force is still with us."


	7. A Scandal In Transit

Thrass watched as the consular transport approached the patrol carrier's hangar, trying and mostly succeeding to keep his attention on the safe arrival of their important passengers. _Not_ on his brother, who was supervising the tactical station, which at this stage mostly required monitoring the transport's fighter escort until they broke off at the last possible minute. Thrawn looked as impassive as usual, listening without expression to reports from his juniors. His uniform was pristine as always, but no more than always, and he had given no special instructions to those directly under his command. Though it was of course true that standard Defense Force procedures should have been to a standard not even the First Councilor could fault, with this many important visitors a little extra care would not have been unexpected.

Especially, Thrass thought, when the highest-ranking of those visitors was the woman who, it was increasingly apparent, would be his sister-in-law before too much longer. Thrawn himself had not said a word, but by this point Thrass had no doubt there were deep-borderlands patrols who had heard the rumor that the Defense Force's youngest commander in recorded memory was the sworn intended of not just a highborn daughter, but the Aristocra of the Second Family herself. That no one said anything to the contrary was, at least where Thrawn was concerned, hardly indicative. He had never had any real concern for what people thought of him, least of all personally. He was not one to dignify rumors with a response. But unless there had been something Thrass missed, there were no denials forthcoming from the Second Councilor, either. Given the circumstances, he was more anxious than usual for this delegation to arrive.

It was, for anyone responsible for security, something of a nightmare. Four representatives of High Families, three the Councilors themselves, traveling to an asteroid-mining facility . . . the quartering concerns were enough to drive anyone mad, never mind the safety issues transferring from the ship to the mining bases and back. But Thrass had done his best and he thought that the arrangements would suit even the most exacting Councilor's tastes and their personal guards' concerns for their safety. As their ship's ramp lowered and the guards, as much ceremonial as serious, preceded the Councilors into the patrol carrier's hangar, he noted the formal livery and wondered if perhaps he hadn't gone far enough.

On the other hand, as the Councilors descended to the hangar, the most high-ranked among them seemed to have decided the dress of the day was casual. Lady Lisetha had opted once again for a plain, practical outfit, a trim jacket not quite cut like a uniform but close enough and practical trousers tucked into boots, all in gentle shades of green without gold trim. Her hair was braided and coiled up, without any extraneous decorations. Of course, she had no weapons, as that would not be suitable for a Councilor, but there was a confidence in her walk and her stance that made Thrass once again suspect his brother's intended was more than capable of taking care of herself.

Thaenil was beside her, the Eighth's responsibility for the Defense crews giving her precedence here despite the Fourth and Sixth outranking the Eighth in general. They were also talking amiably, and Thrass suspected this was not by accident or coincidence. Behind them were Orkeli, the Sixth Councilor, and Peirik, the first son and heir presumptive of the Fourth Family. Pherek, the Fourth Councilor, had deemed himself too ill to make the journey, but had refused to accept his granddaughter, Lady of the Second Family, as suitable to represent both interests. Lisetha's uncle was, like Orkeli and Thaenil, attired formally, though his long overrobe and sash were appropriately less ornate and suited to a Consular aide.

Thrass came to attention as Lisetha and Thaenil approached. "Councilor Reli'set'harana, Councilor Mitth'aen'ilian, Councilor Elor’kel’ihnar, Council Aide Asp'eir'ikadre. I am pleased to welcome you aboard."

Lisetha, as highest-ranking, spoke for them all. "Syndic Mitth'ras'safis, we are glad to have arrived safely. Our compliments on your escort ships' excellent flying." The words were absolutely appropriate, but he thought he detected just the slightest hint of amusement at the formality of it all. "I hope we can get underway quickly."

"We will be making our jump as soon as you and our other guests are settled in your quarters. I hope they prove adequate." Not luxurious, not by the standards of the High Families, at least, but all of them should be aware of that.

"I'm sure they will serve us perfectly well, Mitth'ras'safis," Thaenil said. "If that is all that is delaying our departure, I suggest we dispense with further welcoming pleasantries. I for one am anxious to be underway."

"While you attend to that, I have to beg your pardons," Lisetha said, and now she gave Thrass a brief conspiratorial smile. "One of your officers, Syndic, is delinquent in his duty and I go to correct him."

Thrass looked over his shoulder. Thrawn was still at the tactical station, his attention apparently still on his duties. That alone made him stand out, as even the crew he was supervising were watching the arrival with dutiful respect. That was until they saw the Second Councilor approaching, her gaze fixed firmly on their Commander. Two crewmen scrambled up out of their seats to attention as she passed, but she barely nodded, instead halting directly before Thrawn, who turned, but did not adopt quite so formal a posture.

"Not able to tear yourself from your duties to properly greet such important passengers, Commander?" Lisetha looked every inch the Aristocra, chin high, eyes fixed without flinching on him.

"I show respect by focusing on my duties, Councilor," and Thrawn was just as proper and reserved. "Even such an unusual event should not disrupt the proper order of a Defense Force vessel. And besides," he continued, cocking his head a bit, "I thought to show consideration for my subordinates by not drawing attention to myself upon your arrival."

Lisetha arched a delicate brow. "I'm afraid I don't follow." Thrass would have bet hard currency that there was an undertone of stifled amusement in her voice.

What Thrawn did then was almost enough to shake Thrass's own steady discipline. His brother reached out and took Lisetha's wrist, pressing her hand to his heart, a gesture so intimate and sentimental Orkeli and Peirik stared openly, and even Thaenil audibly choked down a gasp.

Thrawn's expression didn't so much as waver, though. "If I were to draw attention to my immense good fortune, I might inspire feelings of envy and resentment in my subordinates, and that is never good for military discipline."

Lisetha, for a fraction of a second, looked so genuinely startled Thrass almost thought she wasn't going to play along. He shouldn't have doubted. "Then while I'm here, I will have to make sure they see what a stern, upright High Councilor I am, so they'll realize how unfortunate you really are, _nar'ech'yon_."

"You would never be convincing," Thrawn countered. "I will simply be content knowing how well-deserved their envy is." He tightened his hand over hers, and looked as if he were even considering pressing her fingers to his lips. "At the moment, I'm afraid I must attend to my duties, however."

"Then I will leave you to them, and you may attend to _me_ later."

Thrass very nearly choked. The words were entirely reasonable, yet something in the way Lisetha leaned into Thrawn's touch and the way she smiled was so flirtatious, so wanton, he could almost think she really did mean what the (unintended?) innuendo promised. His brother was as disgustingly impassive as ever, giving her a faint smile that was slightly more sincere than his usual expression. But Thrass also noticed how, before releasing her hand, Thrawn traced his thumb across her palm and wrist, and if the slight tremor of her frame was counterfeit, she was a consummate actress indeed.

Affianced, _that_ he could believe. Lovers? It seemed irrational, incomprehensible, foolishly self-indulgent–and as Lisetha turned away from Thrawn he saw her gaze pass quickly over her fellow Councilors and her uncle, clearly seeking their reaction. As she met his eyes there was just the tiniest triumphant tightening at the corner of her mouth and he realized he was being let in on the joke. Thrass had to bite down the impolitic smirk. No, not lovers yet, but wishing to seem the kind of besotted fools normally only found in stories told to impress how perfectly-arranged marriages were the key to happiness on children not yet old enough to comprehend the entire reality of the matter.

And perhaps a bit deeper into their roles than they realized themselves. As Lisetha moved to rejoin them, Thrawn's gaze lingered on her in a way Thrass realized he did not recall his brother ever indulging in before where anything other than a work of art was concerned. Almost . . . hungry.

Then again, it was Thrawn, after all. Nothing his brother did lacked calculation. Thrass was starting to suspect that went double for his fiancee.

_And I thought I played the political game well._

He realized if she noted the reactions of her two fellow councilors and her uncle the councilor-aide, he ought to do the same. Thaenil was doing an excellent job controlling her astonishment, and Thrass thought he detected a faint hint of satisfaction, too. Orekeli might require a fainting couch and was clearly indignant beyond measure. Peirik . . . his expression was almost as cooly impassive as Thrawn's. There was no hint of any emotional reaction, but he was staring hard at his niece, who met his gaze with equal impassivity.

"I believe, Syndic," Lisetha said, rejoining them, "I should see the quarters where I'll be staying. I hope it's not a major inconvenience to your fleet having so many guests."

"Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo oversaw the arrangements," Thrass said, watching her carefully, but her expression didn't change. "I assure you, the sector fleet is not indisposed by your presence at all."

Lisetha's smile had just the slightest hint of amusement. "Let us hope it continues in that vein, then." She glanced at the coterie of guards and one in green and gold, a tall man with the bearing of a Defense Force veteran but with a wicked scar creasing his face and darkening the light in one eyes, stepped silently to her shoulder. "Ser'halis will see to my personal security and I'm sure he will need to inspect my quarters before I occupy them. If someone could be spared to show us the way . . . ?"

It wasn't a hint. She knew as well as he did Thrawn could _not_ be spared for trivial duty and she would never have asked. Instead Thrass turned and gestured sharply to one of his own security officers. The woman stepped forward, and he saw the briefest flicker of emotion in her expression-skepticism, and perhaps a bit of disdain. He frowned slightly and the look vanished. Whether she disapproved of the Commander's lady, or more likely she was more than a bit skeptical of the Second Councilor's choice as her security officer, it was not a common ensign's place to express the opinion. As they departed, and he turned his attention to the other guests, he couldn't help but notice that Council Aide Peirik was watching his niece until she was out of sight, and when she was, his gaze turned to Thrawn.

What the look in his eyes meant, Thrass was not prepared to say, but something about it lingered, uneasily, long after he'd returned to the bridge to oversee the small fleet's jump.

Lisetha found the quarters small, but adequate. Ser'halis looked less than impressed, but a cool look from her had elicited the assurance there was nothing to threaten her personal security. The bed was not luxurious, the hygiene facilities were not elaborate, but for their mission's purposes, it would do. Her eyes lingered on the lone break from the unrelenting military simplicity-a flat panel, worked in dark paints from deep velvety black to swirls of blues and silvers and greens laid on so thick they glistened. The overall effect was of nebulae, or storm clouds backlit by a full moon. She had a suspicion this was not in the quarters assigned to her by random chance.

After a less-cursory inspection, conducted away from the Eighth-Phalanx ensign's disapproving eyes, assured him that there were no listening or other privacy-compromising devices, Serhal had reluctantly let her sort out her belongings on her own.

"I do wish you had permitted Aleishia to accompany you," he'd said, in the kind of disapproving tone he'd never have used in company. "It's not proper for the Second Councilor to travel with only a personal guard."

"Or for that personal guard to be separated from his paramour?" she asked archly, then smiled. "Aleishia has other matters she's attending to that are more important than keeping my robes from wrinkling. And in any case, even with Thrawn's collusion, trying to keep her hidden on a ship and mining stations is stretching our luck. One person who shouldn't sees her without her veil and we're all done for."

"She hasn't been found out yet," Serhal countered, taking a conversational liberty he would have never dared with his distant cousin had they been in public. "Sometimes I almost feel as if people don't even see her at all."

Lisetha's hand paused a fraction of an instant as she unfolded one of her more formal, but not too-formal-to-move-in robes, and felt for his sense in the Force. Nothing probing or duplicitous behind the question. It was a genuine observation and confusion, then, not suspicion. "So much the better for all concerned. Besides," and she was teasing again, but it would distract him from that train of thought, "you seem to have noticed her, and I suspect that's enough."

Serhal didn't flush with embarrassment, but he looked away. "I hope you do not disapprove."

"Of course not." She left unspoken what they both understood, even if Aleishia might not. There was only so far that matters could go. Aleishia was not Chiss. That was that. Nothing either of them could do would change that. "You are both entitled to be happy."

"And you, cousin?" Now it wasn't just the tone but the dialect and form of address that was casual. "That was a very warm greeting for your fiancé. You're happy as well?"

_Never in my life have so many of my relatives been concerned with my happiness._ "Mitth'raw'nurodo and I have an understanding." At least, she was fairly sure they did. "While we're here, though, I would appreciate your observations. Not just about him, you've seen him often enough, but–"

"His subordinates," Serhal said, nodding. "If I can ingratiate myself, I will."

"Do so. Now go and get started." She gestured to the cases. "I have things to unpack which are none of your business, and while you're discretely poking around, I'd appreciate your finding out when the mess times are. I will eat then, and whatever is being prepared. We won't inconvenience the crew any more than necessary by our presence."

"Yes, my lady." He gave her quarters one last suspicious look before he withdrew.

Lisetha waited a moment to make sure he wasn't going to return, and then shook out her undershifts, which she did not actually care whether Serhal saw but which concealed some of her packing that he would very much disapprove of. Carefully, she examined the first crew jumpsuit, done in soft charcoal gray of the Eighth and with no obvious giveaways she could find that suggested the wearer did not actually belong. Her hair would be the tricky part, both with this and with a coarser worker's suit, one suited for asteroid mines. Few female officers and crew wore their hair long and none as long as hers, but a little experimenting with braids had let her pin it up enough under a crew hat or a mine-worker's headgear no one would notice the difference.

The gray jumpsuit felt strange, not at all like her ordinary robes or even her own flights suit. The hat was an even stranger feeling, and having her hair crushed under it felt even stranger. Staring into the mirror, she practiced keeping a slight downward tilt to her chin and a levelness to her eyes. She had noted that the crew did not often look down and away as much as they refrained from looking over someone. The way, she was forced to admit, she and others of her birth class had a habit of doing. That would not be appropriate for a very junior crewman.

The only cover she could think of for walking about without really having orders to be anywhere was a data reader, and hopefully the one she'd chivvied Seln into finding her (objecting all the while that he didn't know what his lady needed with such a sad, plain reader anyone could come by) would pass at least a cursory glance. The only way to test it, and she looked anxiously toward the door, was to try. She would stay out no more than an hour–if Ser'halis returned to find her gone he'd turn the ship upside down and alert everyone, which would make her plans for the station that much more difficult. She would make a quick tour, passing among the crew, and return in time for the evening meal with none the wiser _. If_ this worked as she intended.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the passage. It was empty, which was unsurprising, as the quarters here had been given over to the guests and the Councilors and their escorts were within, not wandering the ship. She set off at brisk pace for a few strides before moderating her stride, quick but not firmly. Not the way a Councilor walked, the way someone who knew their own business walked. Someone who knew that their business was following someone else's orders.

She'd memorized the transport's layout from the security document sent to all the passengers' personal guards before they departed, and knew that there were maintenance access ways paralleling the lift shafts. That seemed safer than riding a lift with crew who might quickly recognize that she did not belong. Engineering was down and aft, command was up and forward . . . weapons bays were probably best avoided, as were the hangars as she'd just come from there. Laundry, the mess, waste . . . that would be the easiest to start with, just as a quick experiment.

Ducking into the maintenance passage, she followed it down, then aft, then traversing towards the starboard side. The Force was not giving her any sort of warning of danger, but she reached out anyway, listening for the minds around her. Nothing to alarm her, not yet. The quiet hum of people going about their normal duties, perhaps with a trace more nervous energy than was normal. Bracing herself, and forcing her heart to slow and her breathing to steady, Lisetha opened the access hatch and stepped into a corridor.

She'd had luck–she could hear the clatter of the mess cooks at work, and the indistinct sound of people speaking, but no one was looking directly down the passage. Lowering her eyes to her data reader, she began officiously tapping it, periodically looking up as if checking something, but never too carefully or too sharply. Dutiful, busy, but not noticeably so. She walked along the passage slowly, and as she went a lift opening ahead alerted her to her first test. Forcing any visible tension from her shoulders, she kept walking and let her senses reach out–a group of crewmen, alert but not overly so, a sense of released tension, coming off shift . . . . She kept moving, feeling for the minds as she approached and gently, firmly, nudging them, encouraging that beginning of relaxation. They were off shift, about to eat, there were no senior officers watching them, they could focus on their hunger, how good it would feel to sit for a while and speak of things other than duty . . . .

She passed the first of the group, and in spite of herself she glanced at them. They were in the same sorts of plain jumpsuits she wore, but they were walking with the kind of relaxed aura of the off-duty, clearly en route to the mess. One man glanced absently in her direction and she lowered her eyes to the data pad, sending out a pressure in the Force. _I am supposed to be here. You don't notice me. Look away, just another crew member you've passed a thousand times._

Somewhat to her surprise, it worked. She could sense their disinterest as she walked by and she had to fight down an absurd urge to giggle. That would definitely draw attention she'd be unable to divert. Picking up her pace, she continued towards the lift they'd come from at the opposite end of the corridor. If it was going to be this easy, she might even dare using the main lifts. A door to one side opened as she approached and a crewman came out, pushing a cart that appeared to be cleaned laundry, presumably going back up to the barracks deck to be returned to its owners. He called for the lift and she paused behind him, still keeping her eyes on the data pad for the most part. As such, when the lift opened and the crewman with the cart stepped in, she followed before noticing who was already standing inside until the crewman straightened sharply and almost stopped, before a voice said, "Please continue, crewman. We would not wish to interfere with your duties."

Mitth'ras'safis. And beside him, turned slightly away and obviously interrupted mid-conversation, her own fiancé, who gave both her and the crewman with the laundry only a cursory side glance before focusing on his brother again.

Listhea bit the inside of her cheek, careful not to let her expression or her body language show an iota of surprise. The slightest unusual act and he'd look closer, and the jig would be up. Even stepping back out of the lift would be a mistake-no crew would refuse to continue as they were after the Syndic ordered it. Instead she simply stepped in and turned away, as if politely offering them an illusion of privacy while she paid attention to her datapad. Thrawn's presence was not helping her maintain her equilibrium, though. Even without looking his presence in the Force was like a lodestone, drawing her attention to its steady strength and its . . . mild irritation. He was annoyed about something, and she couldn't help eavesdropping as they resumed their conversation.

"It's traditional when there are this many important guests aboard," Thrass was saying. "Thaenil our grandmother will be very unhappy if you avoid dining with them tonight. And in any case," and she had to stifle a laugh at the sudden very-much-older-sibling tone to the Syndic's voice, "you heard your _nar'ech'yon_ , you must attend to her anyway."

"That was . . . ." Was Thrawn embarrassed? As always his emotions were so tightly leashed they were near-impossible to read and she fought the urge to turn and look. "My lady was being facetious. She understands the seriousness of this mission."

"She ought to. According to our grandmother, this is almost entirely her idea. Your lady's been needling Councilor Elor’kel’ihnar about problems with the Stiggond Belt mines for months." Thrass sounded suspicious. "Though I thought I saw a familiar hand behind some of the recommendations for our itinerary. Particularly the work transport we're escorting in our group."

"If that was a pointlessly-indirect way of asking if I made recommendations to her as well as to you, of course I did," Thrawn said. "And her concerns appear to be quite valid. Which is why formalities like dinner seem somewhat misplaced."

Thrass lowered his voice, but Lisetha could still make out his reply. "If the two of you are correct, failing to follow basic protocol will alert anyone with ulterior motives that something is unusual. There are enough potential pitfalls without adding any."

"Fair enough," and once against Lisetha only barely kept from laughing at how much Thrawn sounded like the younger brother he was. "And I appreciate your agreeing to increased personal security. I don't know what she's thinking, only bringing Ser'halis. The man makes devotion into a vice and he's never more than shouting distance from her even in her home. I have no doubt he'd lay down his life for her, but as she is the instigator of this investigation she is also the most likely target of any action to derail it. One private guard, who has to rest sometime, is insufficient."

_I am calm, I feel nothing, there is only the Force . . ._ it worked, but barley, and she kept herself still and relaxed, as if she were ignoring them. Extra security? For her? Ridiculous. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. She hadn't noticed any addition security officers when she'd left her quarters. Were they even now looking for her? Or worse . . . blocking her way back to her own quarters? She steadied herself again, willing her heart to slow.

"I appreciate the desire for caution," and once again Thrass had that amused undertone. "Though do I detect a bit of personal ire about her guard's devotion? Can't find a moment alone?"

Thrawn sounded so icy she was surprised the temperature in the lift didn't drop. "I have told you before," he said, "Lady Lisetha is not a prize and I am not looking for opportunities to . . . indulge base desires. This is a marriage to benefit our Families. The fact she's . . . aesthetically pleasing and intellectually stimulating is merely a bonus that makes the whole business bearable."

"Oh, _intellectually_?" The manner of Thrass's speech, grammar and tone, now definitely said this was the older brother teasing the younger, but there was a slightly serious undertone. "Brother, you look at her the way I've only ever seen you look at a piece of art you want for that collection of yours. Only with this one, you aren't going to be content with a holo. You want the original where you can lay hands on it whenever you want." Thrawn didn't reply, but Lisetha could feel him struggling with that leashed beast that was his temper again. "And if you weren't paying attention, she may also tell herself she's putting on a display, but she's no more immune than you are." It was her turn to bite down on a tart reply, harder because she could feel the betraying flush creeping up her neck that belied any denial. "Best if you two get the business settled. She suits you, brother, and clearly your inadequacies don't seem to matter."

"Inadequacies?" Thrawn sounded far more the peeved younger brother than genuinely angry.

"I've known you your entire life, little brother. No one knows better than I how stubborn and self-important you can be, and there's that irritating need to be right all the time rather than politic," and Thrass was definitely fighting a laugh. "Your lady is obviously blind to your faults, and as for you–extra protection, pages of pre-mission reports copied to everyone even half concerned with the business, drilling your crews excessively even for you so they'll impress her? You're besotted. No shame in that." And that seemed sincere. "She _is_ lovely."

There was a slight pause and once again the urge to turn and look was overwhelming. Finally, Thrawn said quietly, "I'm not being a fool, am I? She's an Aristocra. Noble by birth and the head of her clan. Not in my wildest ambitions did I imagine someone like her would be . . . ." He stopped himself, almost too quiet to hear.

"Of course you're being a fool," Thrass said. "Lucky you she's clearly too besotted with _you_ to notice. For once, turn off that analytic mind of yours."

"Easy for your to say, especially under the circumstances." The lift stopped and the doors opened, and the crewman with the laundry practically bolted out. Thrawn and Thrass were apparently leaving here as well, and Lisetha stepped out to allow them to pass before returning to the lift. One more level and she'd be back to her own quarters. Neither gave her more than a cursory glance as they passed, and as the lift doors closed, she was seized with a sudden, impish urge she couldn't resist.

"Have a pleasant evening, sirs," she said as the doors started to close.

"And you, crewman," Thrawn said absently, still turned towards his brother, who only nodded. The instant before the doors closed, she saw the sudden hitch in his stride, and he was clearly starting to look back, but the lift doors closed and she was safely away.

True to what she'd overheard, there was a security crewman standing at the end of the passage where her quarters were and she paused, watching carefully around the corner. There was no way to pass this off as routine and he would notice a crew member going into the Lady Lisetha's quarters and not reemerging. Trying to put aside the fluttering in her stomach that had started listening to that conversation, the pleasant rush of warmth that refused to die away, she once again steadied herself in the Force. Manipulating senses was not as easy as wielding a lightsaber or moving objects, but Aleishia had made her practice, sometimes on an unwitting Serhal or Seln, and now she reached for the guard's mind, gently planting the suggestion he heard a noise at the far end of the corridor, something rattling, perhaps, that shouldn't be. Definitely the sort of thing that should be investigated. As he moved away, she made herself wait until he had almost reached the cross-passage, and then moving as quickly as she dared, she made it to the door of her quarters and inside before he turned around.

Serhal was not back, to her relief, but she wasted no time changing into the robes she'd brought for more formal occasions. Dining in the officer's mess with the Syndic was about the only time on this journey that was likely to occur, but of course she had extra reason to look her best. Both to minimize any chance of Thrawn or Thrass connecting the demure crewer who'd shared a lift with them and because apparently she was 'aesthetically pleasing.' By the time Serhal returned, she had released all the braids and was sweeping her hair into what was, for an Aristocra, a relatively simple updo, and by the time Thrawn appeared at the door in formal dress uniform to escort her to dinner, there was nothing for him to see that might have confirmed any suspicions he'd had.

Dinner went as well as Thrawn anticipated it would, which was to say no one was poisoned, the tension between Lisetha and Thaenil on the one side and Orkeli on the other was thick enough to be almost awkward, and Peirik remained unreadable as he had been on arrival. Thrawn remained as quiet as he politely could, observing the almost stilted interaction between the Councilors and the Council Aide, filing away small tells and noting with some relief that his adoptive grandmother and Lisetha did seem genuinely relaxed in each other's company. Lisetha spoke to him only briefly, directing most of her attention as the principle guest to their host, Thrass, but Thrawn noted her frequent glances in his direction. Equally notable was how she looked directly at the stewards serving them, her smile no less gracious for them than to anyone at the table with her, and she never failed to acknowledge a service with thanks. Orkeli, he observed, treated the stewards as invisible. Pierik, though, was as gracious as his niece. Thrawn filed that away for future consideration.

After seeing his lady back to her quarters, where the presence of his own guard and the one-eyed glare from Ser'halis prevented him from having to decide whether he should kiss her hand, he made a final check of the bridge. Normally he'd have spent some time in his ready room, but he'd ceded it to Thrass for the duration, as befit his brother's rank. So instead he retired to his own quarters, and settled into a chair. Studying the holographic art collection he was slowly amassing would be more restful than simply trying to sleep at the moment, and might distract him from that conversation with Thrass. He'd been so distracted by his brother's ridiculous assertions he'd thought for an instant that crewman in the lift sounded like Lisetha. But of course that was absurd. Roughly the same height, perhaps, similar pitch to the voice, but Thrass had been so insistent on the subject it had made the woman seem more like Lisetha than she undoubtedly was.

There were no native inhabitants in the Stiggond Belt or the system it occupied, so instead he had prepared a selection of works he knew the Sixth Family had purchased for the administrative offices and workers' quarters there, and those Orkeli and Pherek had in their own homes. It was not an inspiring selection, mostly abstracts for the mining belt offices in colors or mineral sculps from the ores mined there, and mundane snow and ice scapes for worker quarters. Orkeli's personal tastes spoke more to a desire to impress visitors with expense and ancestors than real discernment, and Pherek . . .rather than art for its own sake, Lisetha's maternal grandfather seemed to favor antiquities such as ancient temple bronze and primitive attempts at representation of forms. Someone so fixated on the most ancient and venerated eras of their history _would_ object to his granddaughter being bound to the newest of new men, he had to admit.

Thrawn didn't realize his mind was drifting at the border between sleep and wakefulness until, instead of bland ancestor portraits from the most dull period of their people's artistic history, he was seeing a much more recent face, a living face, one he was half-certain in the near-dream that he _had_ seen hidden beneath the brim of a crewman's cap today and not just in the flattering low lights of the officer's private mess. In his mind's eye, he pulled the cap away, letting Lisetha's long, beautiful cobalt hair tumble down her back, revealing the charade (though even in a fantasy he knew, logically, she'd have had to braid it or otherwise pin it up to hide it under the cap.) It would feel like combed merssah silk under his fingers, he knew, and she would close her eyes as he caressed it, drew her close and finally bent his mouth to hers–

His eyes snapped open, and he realized he needed to catch his breath. The only light in his quarters came from the soft glow of the holos and he jabbed hard at the control switch, shutting it off so he would not have the lifeless flat red eyes of long-dead nobles staring reproachfully at him. Even now, fully awake, he could feel how it would be, the press of her body against his, his arms around her, the silken hair, the soft skin . . . .

Thrawn gave an exasperated sigh that there was mercifully no one around to hear. "Damn Thrass for always having to be _right_ ," he said to the darkness, and then called up the most dull departmental reports he could think of until he'd sufficiently distracted himself to finally sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Even when he's fantasizing, Thrawn does have to be logical. And Lisetha's little charade and her parting shot are of course inspired by Irene Adler, dressed as a boy, bidding Sherlock Holmes a good evening with him none the wiser until later.


	8. Shadows and Light

  


Initial arrival at the central station of the Stiggond Belt was as anticlimactic as Lisetha had dreaded it being. The control and processing facility was located on a rock large enough it could charitably have been called a planetoid, if it had not been mined out until its interior was little more than a warren of tunnels and hollowed-out ore veins. The base itself was comfortable, if a bit too open for Lisetha's taste after a lifetime spent under the ice, but it was also industrially sterile, with no real sense of community as she was used to aboard the research stations or fleet ships. Orkeli took point here, as it was his Family's territory, and it was a second son of his who lead the tour. Lisetha was relieved in a way, as it let her fade back, taking the role of a polite but quiet observer, and it also allowed her to observe Thrawn observing his surroundings, which was in many ways more informative than her direct observation.

They were traversing a long corridor with a slight down slope, leading from the administrative offices to the ore-refining laboratories that tested both the batches produced by the processing lines and experimented with new or unusual variations of minerals found in the belt. The hall was entirely enclosed, as the view was apparently considered uninspiring. Instead, to break the monotony of the metal walls, the Sixth had commissioned long panels of tri-d sculptural works, undulating waves of earth-tone colors inspired by the various minerals processed in the facility interspersed with sharp crystalline spikes and shining metallic clusters of the minerals in pure but raw forms.

Thrawn had let himself drift to the back of their group, easy as his brother could take point among the visiting dignitaries, and he was studying the sculps, lingering in front of each panel and examining it with an analytic intensity that exceeded even what she'd seen when he was especially immersed in a game of _wei-jio_ he was momentarily losing. Not for the first time she wondered what he was like in a real firefight–as glacial and stern and terrifying as he'd been staring down her brother? Or did that temper ever slip his control? Was he even capable of that kind of release?

He was certainly capable of longing. There was something almost greedy in how he studied the panels, a covetous tinge to his expression. It startled Lisetha that he let it show at all, and more than that, she felt a strange, indescribable twinge, an odd desire for him to direct that possessive gaze at _her_.

She shoved the thought aside. It was unbecoming and it was absurd and more to the point, it was distracting. "Considering a new style of decor for your quarters?" she asked, lightly teasing and also keeping her voice low enough not to draw the attention of the others.

Thrawn glanced at her as if he had forgotten there were others around and he was irritated at the interruption. Something fluttered in her chest when his expression softened as he realized who was addressing him. "It's not to my taste," he said, and she almost would have sworn there was a touch of humor in his voice. "But that's beside the point. It's very . . . conventional."

"Given what you've seen of Councilor Orkeli and the Sixth, this surprises you?" She studied the panels with their ripples of reddish gold and tan and dull gray. Her eyes sought out a narrow streak of greasy flat black, ceinium, the ore that most often seemed to be missing from recent shipments. "It seems like an obvious choice."

"It is," Thrawn said. He flicked his long fingers, the gesture encompassing the entire mural sculp somehow. "This is precisely the sort of work I would expect to see commissioned for a mining headquarters. It serves as a blunt reminder of the installation's purpose, and also boasts a bit-they can afford to waste even the most precious ores for purely decorative purposes." The pointing finger rested above the ceinium. "It's so obvious, I can't help questioning if there was some other psychology involved in the choice."

Lisetha blinked, and had the unusual experience of feeling entirely out of her depth. "Do you think there is?"

Thrawn was still studying the murals, stepping back and trying to give himself the complete view in the context of the corridor. "Consciously, no. But subconsciously . . . if you asked Councilor Orkeli about the choice of the art, I expect he would say it's to inspire the refinery specialists, a reminder of all the reasons this station is here. But in truth, I think it's a display of the only aspect of the facility he and his Family value-the ore it produces. Look at the entire corridor," and he placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her to direct her gaze. Lisetha kept herself from starting in surprise and it was far more of an effort than it should have been to focus on what he was saying, rather than the strong, slender fingers and how easily he was able to move her with the barest pressure. "There isn't a figural image anywhere. No snowscapes or cavern-garden images. No representations of the act of mining or refining. Just the spoils, unavoidably displayed for visitors and staff. All that matters," and he gestured with his free hand to the precious ores again, "is what is produced."

Lisetha nodded a little hesitantly. "You can tell all that from looking at the murals?" It fit with the sense of the place in the Force, but she would never have made so many inferences just by staring at an abstract flatsculp. Once again, she reached hesitantly for Thrawn's mind, but as always there was no hint he was aware of the contact or the slightest bit sensitive to the resonance of the Force.

He was looking sideways at her, as if debating something with himself, then he said, "The murals, and where they fit with the other things I've observed about Councilor Orkeli. How he speaks to and treats his subordinates, his tone when speaking with those he's forced to consider equals or superiors, what he has wished us to see and know thus far at this facility. He's a superficial, simple-minded man impressed with his own station. But only one man–the murals suggest his attitude is not an individual aberration but is shared by the Family."

She stared from the murals to Thrawn and back again. "I won't disagree with that assessment of Orkeli. But you're suggesting the entire Family is prone to corruption . . . or worse?"

"If your suspicions are correct about where the missing ore and workers are going," Thrawn said, "they would almost have to be. Or at least, in sufficient number to assist in covering Orkeli's actions."

Lisetha tried not to let the disturbance show, but it was not as easy as it should have been. "I was half-hoping you'd tell me I was worrying for nothing. The notion that an entire High Family, or at least those in positions of power, could all be corrupt enough to put our people, including those directly under their protection, in danger, or worse . . . I shouldn't find I so hard to believe, but . . . ."

"But you are born to a High Family, and for one to become so corrupt implies that others could," Thrawn finished for her. "Not a comforting thought."

She didn't reply for a moment. He was far too close to her actual thoughts. How did he do that, with no supernatural abilities she could determine? Then she realized he was still looking at her with something expectant in his expression. "You have another concern?"

He paused a moment. "Only that if such a Family feels both threatened and already resentful of the one threatening them, they may be prepared to take stronger steps than political obstruction to remove the obstacle. A visit like this, to a station with so much potential for sudden, drastic safety failures, would be an ideal environment in which to stage a tragic accident."

Lisetha knew, rationally, he was correct. But even centering herself in the Force, she felt a chill in her gut and a knowledge the danger was not just to her. "Any danger to me is also a danger to Thaenil," was all she said. "She's been almost as vocal as I have."

"True," and Thrawn sounded less concerned about his trial-grandmother than she thought he really should, "but her removal would merely elevate her first son, while yours would elevate a potential ally on their side." Something in his face hardened just a bit, and she knew he hadn't forgotten what Lorkad had said. Or forgiven it any more than she had.

Still, there was yet another possibility, possibly so obvious he'd be annoyed at her saying it aloud. "And of course disposing of a lowly officer would likely not bother them in the least. I did, after all, reject an offer of a noble-born cousin from the Sixth in order to accept a rather high-risk gamble from the Eighth. If they're as corrupt as we suspect then they wouldn't be above killing over petty reasons to remove you as a threat, punish the Eighth, and hurt me more than a simple assassination might." Thrawn looked sideways at her, and she realized what that implied. She could feel her face warming and hoped the color wasn't too high or too obvious.

"I will be especially cautious, then." He must have seen the faint tremor, though, as, though he turned back towards the mural, he let his hand brush hers, his fingers barely pressing. He didn't pull away and she didn't quite press closer, but she did let her fingertips lace with his. He traced his index finger across her palm, and this time the shiver that ran through her was not apprehension.

"Is this entirely proper?" she murmured out of the side of her mouth.

"What better reason for us to linger together?" he countered, equally softly. "Let them wonder if you can truly be that foolish, to let an infatuation distract you."

"And you are merely humoring a silly Aristocra?" she could help retorting.

Thrawn smiled thinly. "They already underestimate me," he said, once again studying the art. "Let them misjudge us both."

The mining asteroids were not a noticeable improvement as far as interesting decor or genuinely-informative tours went. Thrawn declined to accompany the official delegation this time, preferring to stay on the ship and oversee the docking of the work transport. Or so he told Thrass. Judging by his brother's expression, Thrass had his doubts on that score. He didn't say anything, however, only nodded acceptance and went with the dignitaries, keeping any questions for later when he had time for a proper fraternal interrogation.

Thrawn did not watch their departure. He had little enough time as it was to change into the workman's coveralls he'd acquired and insert himself on the mine transport before its final approach. The transport followed the dignitaries' shuttle most of the way before branching off to a lower tunnel into the moon-sized asteroid. Keeping his head down, Thrawn still managed to watch his fellow passengers, mostly excavation workers trained on the plasma-beam cutters required for the safe removal of ceinium ore from the larger deposits of ferrium in which it was usually found, without damaging either valuable commodity. Most seemed appropriately calm and at ease, reviewing work assignments on data readers or sitting quietly. As such, Thrawn focused on the transport crew, and then on the supervisors waiting as the transport docked in the asteroid's industrial bay.

Something was definitely off. It might have been the knowledge the Aristocra of the Sixth Family was on the station, with several important guests as well, but Thrawn thought the way they were watching the workers come down the ramp was less nerves than calculation. He lingered near the back of the final group, the identity card he'd authorized for himself clipped to the collar of his borrowed uniform, planning to duck the scanners if possible anyway as he passed through the line. The supervisors didn't appear to be scanning them, though, only watching and directing most workers down a corridor to the right, while a few, after a visual inspection, were taken to the left. Thrawn, hunched and with a restrained gait that resembled in no way his normal stride, kept to the right, blending with the larger group until they reached a turn to the worker barracks and he ducked aside.

He had memorized the layout of the mines, including the workers' quarters, maintenance bays, life-support and containment systems, and active shafts, and he knew that the way the smaller group of workers was being sent should lead only to denuded and closed-out mine tunnels. There might be a perfectly reasonably explanation for why workers would be diverted to areas that had been marked as inactive, but something about the situation didn't fit. The number being diverted would certainly account for the lack of increase in food supplies to compensate for the increased number of workers that the Defense Force knew were being brought in. None of the workers directed to the left had looked worried, but several had seemed confused.

And Thrawn had not failed to notice that the supervisors were wearing charric sidearms.

He had not come unarmed himself, and he double-checked the holster tucked within his jumpsuit. It was not as readily available as he'd have liked, but it was there if he needed it. Waiting until he heard no steps or voices close by, he began moving down the tunnel, keeping close to the wall and an ear open for anyone approaching.

Twice, he stopped to look back purely on instinct. He had the distinct sense that someone was shadowing him deeper into the mine, but both times, he saw only the empty corridor. He wrote it off, for now, to heightened combat senses, and continued following the tunnel. The lights began to be farther apart, and judging by the slope of the floor the path was leading both down and on an increasing angle away from the main hangar and active mining shafts. He kept going, pausing one more time when that sense of a shadow nagged at him again, until he reached a heavy set of doors, marked with a seal that indicated the shaft had been mined out and closed down.

The seal was broken.

Thrawn checked the warning symbols on the seal. The area was not open to vacuum, and there were only level-three ores being mined, meaning there should be no significant radiation or chemical contamination. And an examination of the ground in front of the door and the wear on the mechanism said this was not an abandoned shaft, after all. Keeping one hand near his weapon, he turned the release on the doors and slipped through.

The noises ahead sounded more appropriate to a loading dock than a mine, not that he had extensive experience with those. He could hear the faint whine of repulsors, the heavy rattle of metal cases being shifted, and above or perhaps beneath it all was a sound that was not quite a hum and not really speech, but it grated on his hearing, even when he wasn't certain he heard it at all. Following the sounds and the growing light, he came to an entryway into a larger cavern.

It _was_ the old shipment loading bay, and there was a transport in the Sixth Family's colors docked there. The workers he could see were in two groups. One group seemed to be packing small holding containers he recognized as being the sort the higher-value ores were placed in for transport to the refineries. Supervisors in the same uniforms as those at the main hangar were observing the process, directing the crates onto loading lifts. It was hard to tell from a distance, but Thrawn thought the containers were marked as containing ceinium. There were no records of this particular mining station having produced anything other than the far-less-rare prastorium ore for over a standard year. Wherever these were being sent, it wasn't to any known production facilities in the Ascendancy and the Defense Force was not providing escorts for the shipments.

It was the second group of workers who intrigued him. They were standing in a line at the opposite side of the bay from the loading operation, as a supervisor and a figure in a cloak moved along the line behind them. He thought the cloaked creature was not a Chiss, but the hood shadowed its face and he did think he saw some sort of light from beneath the cowl. It paused at each of the workers, its hand raised, though Thrawn couldn't see any sort of scanner or tool in it. As it moved on, the worker it had presumably inspected would turn, their movement stiff and slow, and walk up the ramp into the transport. The supervisor made a note of some kind on a data reader and they would move on to the next one.

_What happens if the answer to whatever you're looking for is no?_ Thrawn didn't have to wait for the answer. The cloaked figure stopped behind a worker, and its gloved fingers moved in a clenching gesture. The woman stiffened, her eyes going wide. The fingers moved again, and Thrawn felt a gnawing pain in his ears as that subsonic hum seemed to grow louder, become almost a sibilant whisper in words he didn't understand.

The hooded figure's fingers clenched, and the woman's eyes went dull as her knees buckled.

Thrawn clamped down on any emotional reaction that might cause him to move or make a sound that would draw attention. He succeeded, other than his hand tightening without thought around the grip of his charric. He'd seen death before. But there was a sound behind him, boots on the stone of the tunnel, perhaps, as if someone had stumbled backwards. He froze, but the supervisors didn't move and two other workers, moving quickly and without any outward sign of distress, hauled the limp figure along the floor and away from the loading deck.

The hooded figure did, turning slowly in the direction of the entrance. Thrawn got a brief glimpse of some kinds of lights-a helmet or mask, perhaps?–beneath the cowl before dropping his own gaze and cursing whatever evolutionary pressures had made it desirable for their eyes to be glowing locator beacons. The figure's head turned slowly, and at the corners of his vision, Thrawn thought he saw a flickering of shadows.

He risked a look up, and the hooded figure was gone.

Cursing to himself, he rose as high as he dared and began backing along the edge of the tunnel, keeping his attention on the lighted chamber for any signs of pursuit. There was no movement from the entrance to the loading bay or sounds of footsteps in pursuit, but he had no way of knowing where the hooded creature, who could apparently kill or at least incapacitate without even touching its victim, had gone. He eased the charric out of its holster, keeping it low by his side, and took another step back.

A hand closed on his arm.

Thrawn pivoted, trying to bring up his weapon, but a strange pressure seemed to slow his movements even as his assailant's other hand pressed over his mouth. He went still as abruptly his attacker's face became visible. Lisetha, her hair twisted up in tight braids beneath a worker's at (and he complimented himself on having been right about what she'd need to do even as he stifled a flare of pure rage that she'd actually done it), had her fingers pressed to his lips and whispered "He knows we're here."

Slowly, he reached up with his free hand and carefully lowered hers. "How?"

For a fraction of a second she had a strange look, fear, regret, something he couldn't name, but then she said, her lips barely moving, "He can sense my presence, and I can sense his. This is worse than I thought. We have to get out, now."

Recriminations, demands to know what she was doing and how she'd gotten here, would have to wait until much later when they could speak aloud. Instead, he only nodded and gestured back up the tunnel towards the landing bay. Already his thoughts were racing ahead. Lisetha was in another plain jumpsuit, similar to the one he had borrowed for his own expedition. This was more than simply slipping away from the official tour. She must have pled some indisposition, returned or pretended to return to her quarters, and done much as he had, slipping in among the work crew. But she was a politician, not a soldier, with no training in infiltration or stealth. It had been her boots he'd heard on the stone, her movements that had alerted the strange humanoid to their presence.

But . . . _he can sense my presence._ She was saying that the hooded figure had some way of perceiving her beyond ordinary senses. Her, not them. That was disturbing.

_I can sense his._

That was, at the moment, entirely outside his comprehension. And they didn't have time for an extended conversation. Get back to the main cavern while evading detection, find some explanation for their both needing to return to the transport, retreat to the security of his quarters or hers, and discuss both what they had seen and what lunacy had possessed her to come down here alone. That was the priority at the moment and he couldn't afford to worry about the esoteric parts yet. Not when Lisetha was hurrying ahead, something he'd thought was a light but clearly wasn't in one hand, the glow of her eyes showing the tight, nervous expression on her face.

Thrawn heard the sound a half-second too late, and a blow struck them both hard from behind. He grabbed for Lisetha's arm but she was catapulting forward, barely ahead of the rain of rocks being flung at them. He had enough presence of mind to twist around, snapping off a shot at the dark figure swirling out of the dust-clouded darkness, before a hard blow knocked the breath from him and sent him sprawling, his vision momentarily clouded by pain.

When it cleared, Thrawn saw Lisetha on her feet, her back to him, that object he'd thought was a glowlight of some kind in her hand, gripped in the unmistakable fashion of a weapon. _Weapon_ . . . he fumbled in the dark near his right hand and his fingers brushed the grip of his charric. Before he could sit up and aim, he got his first close look at the hooded figure, and in spite of himself, he froze.

The creature standing just beyond Lisetha reminded him, vaguely, of the human alien, Aleishia, except he did not recall her skin being quite so chalk-colored. He could not see any details of the alien's physical features-there was a web of what appeared to be circuits and wires across most of its face, and while Thrawn could not see any details, the web seemed to extend down the neck and across what seemed to be an armored bodysuit. Some of the wire leads flickered with lights, and others appeared to stab directly into the alien's skin. His eyes were still shadowed, but there was no mistaking where his attention was fixed: directly on Lisetha.

One of the gloved hands moved, and a rock the size of a fist shot up off the ground, directly at Lisetha's head. Thrawn tried to get his feet under him and lunge at her, knowing it was futile and there was no time to get her out of the way.

Lisetha raised her free hand, palm out, and before it even connected the stone ricocheted off into the darkness of the tunnel.

Thrawn stared, but then the creature distracted him from _that_ newest conundrum by speaking. The voice spoke Cheunh, but there was a strange reverberation, a skin-crawling overtone like the subsonic hum he'd felt in the hangar only echoing in words. "Chiss," the creature said. "Force-user. _Jeddhai_." The voice clawed through his nerves, something dark and sickening underlying the words. "You cannot be allowed."

Lisetha stood her ground, gaze level, and even in the distracting situation, there was something magnificent about it. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice cold and harsh with all the command of a born noble. "What have you done to these people?"

The creature . . . _flowed_ sideways, forcing her to turn to keep herself between it and Thrawn and incidentally ruining the aim he was trying to establish with the charric. "They belong to the machine."

"They are my people," she retorted. Her gaze was still fixed on the alien, but he could have sworn he felt a pressure like a hand again, pressing him towards the ground. "The Chiss people. You have no right to take them or to harm them." She brought the weapon in her hand up, though a slight wobble to her stance told Thrawn this was likely her first time raising it against a live opponent. "I will not let you."

"You cannot oppose the machine." Its attention wavered, and Thrawn realized that alien gaze was turned on him. "You both oppose the machine. You cannot be allowed. The machine says kill."

"What is the machine that it says we cannot be allowed?" Lisetha demanded. Her voice didn't waver, even if he could see the slightest tremor in her hands. "Who are you?"

The air in the tunnel could not reasonably have changed temperature and yet the cold was so real he caught his breath. The creature had gone still as the stone around them, the shadowed face pointed fixedly at Lisestha. "Never ask that question." It raised a gloved fist.

_Look up_. Thrawn wasn't sure if the words were real or not. Lisetha hadn't turned and he hadn't seen her mouth move, but it had sounded like her whispering. He obeyed, and saw the cracked beams of stone across the tunnel's ceiling above the alien. A charric blast, he realized, would likely bring a significant chunk of the tunnel down on their assailant-though possibly on them as well. Not that there appeared to be many alternatives. Slowly, painfully slowly, he eased himself into an easier firing position.

The shards of stone came swirling out of the darkness at him like slugs from a primitive thrower and he ducked, shielding his eyes, even as Lisetha stepped sideways and raised her hand in a looping gesture that sent them spiraling away. Once again, she was between him and the dark creature, now directly enough he realized the other couldn't see his weapon hand. Lisetha, meanwhile, brought the weapon in her other hand in an arc, and he heard a snap-hiss and a pulsing electronic hum. There was a blur of gold, and then a second sound of the weapon's ignition and a glare of green. Lisetha lunged forward like a pike fighter and Thrawn saw the flash of both weapons as their attacker parried and countered. There was a hiss of what sounded like cloth being sliced, a scent of singed fabric and hair, and Lisetha gave a cry of pain and stumbled back a step, the glow of her blade wavering as she nearly dropped it.

The sound jolted Thrawn, and the primal temper momently slipped free of his control as confusion gave way to rage. He abandoned caution and rose to his knee, leveling the charric at the ceiling. The alien creature had been pressing the advantage Lisetha's wound gave him but turned at the movement. _Too late_ , and Thrawn allowed himself a vicious sort of satisfaction as he pulled the trigger, firing into the tunnel's ceiling three times before he heard a sharp crack that told him the weak spot had failed. "Get back!" he snapped, throwing himself up the tunnel as he saw the enormous chunk of stone start to fall.

Lisetha was still facing their opponent, who had looked up at the sound, and suddenly the beam of stone snapped. The hooded alien stumbled back, swinging his hand up and making a pushing gesture. Lisetha was turning to follow Thrawn when the chunks of rock came flying at an impossible angle at them both. Thrawn turned in time to see one strike her, sending her flailing to the ground, an instant before the entire section caved in, sealing the tunnel behind them and the shuddering of the impact sent him back to his knees.

The silence as the rock settled was nearly as loud as the cave-in had been. Thrawn blinked, fighting the urge to rub at the grit he could feel settling on his face, knowing it would only make matters worse if he ground the rough debris into his eyes and he blinded himself. If their enemy had been trapped on their side–

A look at the tunnel told him that was impossible. If the strange hooded alien had escaped the cave-in, it was trapped on the far side, with several tons of the mine tunnel's ceiling between it and Thrawn and Lisetha–

_Lisetha!_ He forced himself to his feet, squinting through the settling dust until he saw a mass of gray and black and dust-covered pale blue sprawled among the debris. She was on her side with her back to him. Her legs had come millimeters from being crushed, one arm was flung awkwardly forward as if she'd been trying to break her fall and had failed. She was not moving.

He didn't remember crossing to her, or notice the sharp rubble digging into his knees as he sank down beside her and reached for her wrist, fingers probing for the pulse point. _No, please, gods and ancestors, no . . . ._ She was breathing, and as he turned her, her eyes flickered half-open. The relief was almost as overwhelming as the fear had been mindless, all-consuming. She slumped against him and his arms tightened convulsively, whether to reassure himself she was awake and breathing or to stop himself from shaking, he wasn't sure.

The anger came back almost as quickly.

"What was that?" He kept his voice as level as always, no longer bothering to whisper.

"An agent," she murmured, still sounding dazed, "of the dark ones, I think."

"Not that." He lifted her, careful to let her head rest against his shoulder. "What did you do? You moved the stones without touching them. That weapon you used-that isn't anything I've ever seen before. What was that?"

She was silent a moment, eyes closed, and if her breathing had not been ragged, he would have thought she'd slipped back into unconsciousness. "Do you remember stories of ancient warriors who had strange powers? To move mountains, to speak across far distances, to bend the minds of the weak? Even to see the future?"

"Children's stories," he said, picking his way carefully over the last of the rubble, cradling her as tightly as he dared. "Legends to explain exceptional tactical or persuasive skills when superstitions still ruled our people."

"No," she said softly. "Aleishia explained to me–the order of peacekeepers she belonged to, they had these abilities. It's not magic, it's just . . . some are born attuned to an energy field that permeates the universe, generated by life itself. All living things are a part of this power, but only some are able to sense it, manipulate it . . . I always thought I just had quick reflexes, that I could observe so closely it was like reading minds. But . . . I have that ability. That's what he said, Force-user."

Thrawn stopped, tightening his grip until she looked up at him. "You're saying that you moved those stones . . . with your mind?" She was mad, except . . . he had _seen_ it.

Lisetha closed her eyes again, and her fingers tightened convulsively against the fabric of his stolen jumpsuit. "Look around us, Thrawn."

He frowned, but obeyed. And nearly dropped her as he realized at least a dozen or more of the smallest rock fragments were floating, circling them like miniature planets orbiting a sun, each suspended in midair with no regard for gravity or even common sense. He blinked, willing his vision to clear, but they were still there. "You're doing this?" he whispered, still searching through his mind for some explanation, some trick of antigravity or force fields or something in the realm of reality to explain what he was seeing.

"Yes," and there was a slight hint, even now, of pride. "I draw on the Force–the energy–and I can manipulate objects. One more tool to serve our people, one more weapon, one I can never admit I have. I'm better at that than some of the other things. Aleishia can bend thoughts, make people forget they've seen her or at least not be curious about her. That's why we've been able to hide her so long." She turned her face to his shoulder, and the stones fell as if gravity had suddenly reasserted itself. "Never on you," she said, and he had the infuriating fear she'd read his mind, "she tried just the once when you first saw her, and she said it was like . . . trying to unravel a four-dimensional maze. I knew from the first day we met I'd never try. It only works on the weak-minded and you . . . you're far from that."

He fought down the unreasoning anger, the more-infuriating fear of it, and focused on what she was saying. Unbidden, one thought kept placing itself at the forefront. "You said you were born with these abilities." She nodded against his shoulder, not looking up at him. "Then this ability . . . it can be inherited?"

She went very still in his arms. Then, finally, she whispered, "Yes."

Thrawn held the thought. Examined it. Their child–more than heir to the Second Family, more than a cadet or aide or artist or whatever other talents they would possess-more than that, they could be . . . this. Force-user, the alien had called it. The ancient stories had other words for it. All were synonyms for monsters. Yet . . . _._

_They are my people. The Chiss people. You have no right to harm them. I will not let you._

He began walking again, his arms tightening around her even as she clung a bit closer, her eyes still closed. "Do these abilities also make you foolhardy and suicidal? You have absolutely no business being down here. You could have been seen. You could have been . . . you were nearly . . . ." Fear warred with anger and choked off his words.

"I followed _you_ ," she said, and some of that fire was back in her voice.

" _I_ was investigating the matters we had discussed," he said, gritting his teeth. "You were supposed to be on the formal inspection. You are Lady of the Second Family, Aristocra and High Councilor, you have no right to put yourself at risk and you are forbidden from doing so."

"Forbidden by whom?" He was not the only one, it seemed, treading close to the edge of his temper.

"By tradition, by common sense, and by me if necessary." He kept walking, even as he could feel her tensing against him. "Or do you want your seat on the Council handed to your brother?"

"You may not care for them any more than I do, Thrawn, but I have a brother and a sister who may take my place on the Council if they must," she snapped, not even bothering to contain her ire. "I was not aware, however, that the Defense Force was so full of brilliant strategic minds that you can casually throw yours away! I am expendable, you are not."

"I am a soldier," he said, willing himself not to scream. "My mind, whatever talents I possess, are tools to serve our people including through my death if that is what is necessary."

"And do I owe our people any less?" She certainly sounded recovered, but he found he had no desire to put her down. For a start, she'd probably immediately find another way to risk her life. "I was born to serve, not to rule, and no one will stop me doing so, not my family, not the Council, and not you! You saw what is happening here. I will not stand by and watch our people sold into slavery or worse."

"No, you will not," Thrawn said. He could feel the tunnel beginning to slope upwards and the light was beginning to change, grow brighter by increments. "Neither will I."

"I know that." She sounded just slightly subdued again. After a moment, she said, "I'm sorry to have put you through all this."

"As you said, you followed me." He did not point out that he had heard her coming, at least twice, and it may have been her presence which alerted the dark warrior to their presence.

"Not this." She rested her cheek against his shoulder again, and he had the strange sense she was indulging herself, an odd edge of melancholy to her voice. "I mean . . . all of it. I should have told you the entire truth about Aleishia, what she is, what . . . I am. I shouldn't have let it go this far. I'll make it my fault somehow, so only I lose face."

"Your fault?" He wasn't accustomed to being well and truly lost in a conversation, but either she had struck her head harder than he'd thought, or he was going to have to adjust to the feeling.

"You asked if my . . . abilities . . . can be inherited. I know why you want to know. You know now I can do things that even our superstitious ancestors considered demonic. You've seen I don't know my place, even if it's in a Council chair that I should stay in. But I can't leave fights like this to others." Her voice trembled and had the growing cadence of an avalanche beginning to roll faster and faster until it was out of control. "I know you were never deeply desirous of marriage, neither was I, but I had started to let myself hope–oh, never mind now. I can choose a trial-son or daughter at some point, force Ser'halis to marry and adopt his child if I have to. I swore in front of my mother and sister I wouldn't marry anyone but you, but I should have told you the entire truth before I promised that. Don't worry, if there's one thing nobles are good for, it's making a scandal our fault. I won't harm your career. I'll take all the blame because it _is_ my fault."

A head injury. It had to be, though she certainly sounded lucid. Thrawn stopped, and gently eased her down, holding her as she wavered and got her feet securely under her. She looked up, and he saw nothing but clarity, and guilt, and a stupidly noble sadness in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Thrawn," she said again, "I only wanted to use my gift to help, I never thought–"

There was no other way, nothing she would hear, and besides all the anger and exasperation and that moment of frozen, perfect terror when he had not known if she was alive or dead were coalescing to break whatever self-control he had left. Thrawn crushed her to him, ignoring how she jerked with pain from her arm and the bruises from the fall and he no longer felt the aches and weariness from his own injuries. He realized as her mouth parted under his and he deepened the kiss that she had likely never _been_ kissed before, not like this, not unrestrained desire and need and a desperate possession.

Realized, but didn't care. Her arms snaked around his neck, his hands pressed against her back, and the only coherent thought he could form was _mine. Mine, mine, mine!_ Damn Thrass for being right, damn Lisetha for being the one prize he couldn't resist, the jewel of his collection, the most stubborn, foolhardy, brilliant creature who seemed determined to kill herself to prove she wasn't some useless aristocrat. And she was _his._ Her words, her touch, how she yielded to him and on the other hand barely let him pause for breath, the evidence was incontrovertible. The highest of the highborn, literally able to have her choice of her own class, and she chose a common-born soldier–more, let _him_ choose _her._ In all his wildest ambitions, since he and Thrass had dreamed as children of rising as high as their talents allowed, this, he had never even dared imagine.

He finally forced himself to pause, catch his breath, let her breathe again. But he spoke against her skin, lips brushing near her ear, as he murmured, "My Lisetha . . . ."

"Yours," and it was more of a sigh than a word.

"We need to get back and get you aboard the ship before your absence is noted." Thrawn lifted her again, cradling her tighter than he needed to but unwilling to give up even that contact just now.

"You know," and even with her arms draped around his neck and her head pillowed on his shoulder, she could sound so very arch, "I _am_ perfectly capable of walking."

"So noted," he said, not slowing. "If we're recognized, however, best to explain your presence as your taking an ill-advised self-guided tour during which you injured yourself. A twisted ankle, perhaps?"

"And you just happened to notice my departure and followed me, knowing the sort of trouble I like to get myself into?" she asked archly. "No one will believe us."

"Then they'll think it's a flimsy excuse to cover an assignation," he said evenly. "If anyone suspects what really happened, that will tell us they know what's truly happening here." In spite of an absurd adolescent euphoria that was still clouding part of his brain, Thrawn frowned. "Thrass needs to know what we've discovered."

"Immediately," said Lisetha, somehow managing to sound serious despite her extremely undignified position. "We have to stop that shipment and capture those concerned."

Thrawn shook his head. "By the time we convince anyone to investigate, that cavern will be empty. This was not a small-scale plan, and we can safely assume that Councilor Orkeli and others high in the Sixth Family are fully aware of it. Our presence will have alerted them and they'll evacuate. We will look like lunatics. Or," and his eyes narrowed as he considered what he would do in their position, "it could be that they might consider Orkeli an acceptable sacrifice to maintain secrecy, and a suitable accident for the transport could be arranged."

"If he's smarter than he seems, he might even figure out a way to escape," Lisetha said grimly, "but you can be certain the rest of us wouldn't. All right, then. But your brother needs to know. Ser'halis. And when we return, I'll tell Aleishia what we faced. The dark servant . . . he's a Force user. I don't know enough to know what kind, but I know he was better trained than I am. That's not Aleishia's fault, by the way. Where she comes from, Force-users are trained practically from birth. Ouch!"

Thrawn winced and felt a twinge of guilt for having tightened his grip so hard. "Best not to talk of that where anyone can hear," he said, trying to control the unreasoning resentment. "But yes. Those we can trust, but no further until we have more evidence." They were approaching the landing bay where he had arrived and he slowed, lowering her back to her feet. This time he suspected Lisetha did not lean against him because her legs were unsteady. He looked ahead towards the brighter lights of the bay. "There must be a way up to the main hangar. We may be able to get back aboard the transport before our absences are noted. And you will certainly need to clean up and dress more appropriately."

"I pled a sudden illness," she said, looking but not really seeming to look at the light ahead of them. There was something eerie about her distracted expression, but Thrawn shook the thought away. "If I look a bit mussed they'll write it off to that. Or," and the sideways look she gave him was an expression he had never seen her have before, "that I was merely using it as an excuse. Given you declined the invitation as well, it might be best to let them draw their own conclusions."

"It may at that." She started to turn away, but he caught her arm and turned her back before she could step out of the shadows. Her brow furrowed, but she didn't protest. Thrawn eased his grip, just a little. "Do you know what marriage in hand is?" He watched carefully for any sign of alarm or displeasure. This might not, after all, be the moment to raise the question. But then again, an opponent with better aim, and they would not have any further moments at all.

He saw only a slight puzzlement. "I have heard of it, of course," Lisetha said, "in stories for children, where there are either two very foolish young people who mistake love for happiness and are trapped forever, or where two who are reluctant to accept their Families' arrangement do, and are so happy they marry in hand so they can never be separated." Her lips pursed. "Now that I find myself in the position to marry, I notice a great deal of our children's tales emphasize how unhappy those who don't follow tradition usually are."

"Not an inappropriate lesson," Thrawn said. "But you understand what it means?"

"And that it is still valid, and legally possible," she said. "That it is for life, truly and in total, and cannot be dissolved from without or within." She was resting her hand in his. "Also how ancient the ceremony is, for all it's quite simple."

Thrawn nodded. "Could you be prepared the evening of our return to Csilla?"

Lisetha went very still, and for half a heartbeat, he was afraid she was going to say no.

Finally, she smiled, a thin, amused expression. "Give me two days. There are still _some_ arrangements to be made, and I do need time to prepare the proper clothes." The smile faded. "You're absolutely certain? If we do this, there's no going back. And as you just saw, obedience and caution are not my strong suits. You may get very tired of me."

"It _is_ a gamble," Thrawn said, raising her hand to his heart, and then this time to his lips, pressing the lightest of kisses on her palm. "But all great strategy carries an element of risk. And it means I will finally have adequate time–all our lives, as it happens–to unravel the puzzle."

"What puzzle is that?" She drew her hand away, straightening her torn, dusty coveralls as best she could.

Thrawn arched an eyebrow. "You, my lady. You keep providing me with more pieces, yet I don't have the entire picture." He adjusted his own disguise, making sure his sidearm was concealed, and resisted the urge to take her arm. There was a chance they might still get aboard the transport without notice, and two workers holding hands would attract far more attention than they desired. And in any case, there would, in two days, be all the time in the galaxy for that.


	9. Terms of Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry it's been a bit of a wait! Last week at work..then I got sick on the last NIGHT at work (our biggest special event yet) and felt like crap for three days, my car decided to die (but yay, it was apparently an easy fix and I can pick it up Monday) but I GOT IT DONE. Romantics...this one is for you.

 

Thrass leaned back in the command chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm not saying I don't believe you," he said, and wasn't surprised when Thrawn interrupted him.

"I should hope you aren't." His brother was dressed in his uniform, as crisp and precise as he ever was, but he moved as if nursing bruises and there was a slight smudge that looked like dirt that showed every time his left cuff rode up. If what he and his lady had just described had happened, then it was hardly surprising, especially in contrast to the more shocking development of their arriving together and Thrawn clearly fighting the urge to offer support she clearly needed. Lisetha showed signs of both a hasty cleanup and even more than Thrawn seemed to be favoring . . everything. In her case, Thrass could only wonder if the universe had a grand sense of justice and figured if she was going to lie about physical indispositions, it would provide authentic evidence for her. He even allowed a certain degree of satisfaction at that.

Privately, of course; going by their body language since they'd entered the command room, Thrawn would _not_ react positively to the slightest hint about harm to even a hair on his clearly-beloved's head.

Thrass had been suspicious of Lisetha, not ten minutes into their tour, pleading low-gravity sickness and retreating to the ship. He was hardly the only one who'd questioned her motives. Going by the satisfied little smile, his grandmother had undoubtedly put this together with Thrawn's remaining behind and drawn the logical conclusion (logical to anyone unfamiliar with his brother's obscure sense of propriety, at any rate.) Orkeli hadn't even bothered to conceal his opinion, going so far as to speculate aloud that perhaps her _condition_ was such her intended was obliged to comfort her, with little doubt that he meant her "illness" was one her fiancé had precipitated and the sort which resolved itself in a matter of months with a firstborn. Absurd on many levels, and Thrass hadn't dignified the insult with a response. Nor had Pierik, who had been the only one to simply watch his niece leave them, that thoughtful expression once again on his face. That was somehow more disconcerting.

Hearing what his brother and his presumptive sister-in-law had actually been doing was both a wilder, less believable story and entirely too plausible. "I am only pointing out," he said, "that scans of the asteroid do not show any signs of this reopened mine or of any transports except those we were officially informed of."

"They'd have to be careful, wouldn't they?" Lisetha countered. Her tone hadn't changed, at least. She was still the Aristocra and trying, at least, to be in as much command of the situation as was appropriate. "If the . . . creature who followed us survived, and suspected we had, he would tell them, and they wouldn't want us coming back with a detachment of soldiers."

"They have been concealing this operation for a very long time," Thrawn said, in a quieter tone that always had more authority than any three others combined could convey. "They had to have a contingency in place. The question is, now that we know this operation exists, how do we prove it?"

"Bringing back evidence other than your word would be a start. I'm not saying I don't believe you," he repeated, rather hastily when he saw their expressions, "but for the Council? Lady Lisetha, you have to know it's not enough."

"I know, which is why we're here, rather than planning a public denunciation as soon as we're safely back on Csilla." Thrawn flinched visibly at the word 'safely', and if Thrass had the mental energy remaining he'd have been astonished at how she absently reached out and pressed her hand in his, such an automatic, unthinking gesture of reassurance it seemed impossible they'd staged it.

More astonishingly than that, it appeared to work. Some of the tension seemed to drain out of him at her touch, and his fingers curled around hers for a moment, pressing in return. His tone when he spoke, though, was as level as ever. "You're in command in this sector, Thrass. You can investigate shipments where we can't. Lisetha doesn't have authority to order ships stopped and I can't take an action that irregular without higher orders, let alone track the ships or confront whomever is receiving them."

"And how do you propose I justify this to the high command?" Thrass asked. "I can't issue orders like that without a reason."

"The only concrete evidence we have at the moment is the number of transports being brought in," Lisetha said. "We know now why they don't need more food and supplies–some aren't staying, and some are being killed." She grimaced. "The ones not staying are being taken somewhere, but we don't have any idea where."

Thrawn had that tight-lipped look he got when he didn't have a brilliant idea immediately to hand. "If I'd been thinking, I would have brought a tracking device to plant on that transport. But I had no idea it would be there."

"You'd never have gotten close enough," Lisetha said. "He'd have sensed you even if no one saw you. I should have slipped aboard. I might have had a chance of sneaking by him."

Thrass was sure his jaw dropped, and Thrawn saved him from having to formulate an answer. "That is an absurd suggestion. Never even consider anything that reckless again."

"We aren't married yet, Thrawn," she said mildly. "You're starting a bit early with the ultimatums."

"Apparently when it comes to common sense and self-preservation I can't afford to wait two minutes, let alone two days." Thrawn didn't sound the slightest bit mollified. "What did you plan to do if and when the ship took off with you aboard?"

"Find out where it was going and what they're planning to do with the workers they took aboard. We already saw what they did with the ones they found unworthy." She shivered, and there was an odd distant look in her eyes. "Besides, if I disappeared," and there was something in her distracted, absent tone that was distressingly reminiscent of Thrawn when he was casually describing some suicidal plan, "then they'd have to turn the entire asteroid upside down looking for me and you'd certainly have found _something_ incriminating. Orkeli could hardly object to the search, and I could have made enough of a fuss to delay leaving the system and bought time for you to stop the ship, and we'd have all the evidence we need."

"Or you could have been killed in a matter of minutes," Thrawn retorted. "I grant that your idea about a search is correct, but the cost would be too high. Do I have to repeat myself? You are _not_ expendable."

Thrass, for his part, was almost too busy trying to process another part of Thrawn's dressing-down to acknowledge how right that was, especially if they were going to win the Council over once they did have evidence. "I'm sorry," he interrupted, and found himself on the receiving end of twin stares suggesting they'd both forgotten his presence. "Did you say two days?"

"A little more than that, but yes," Lisetha said dismissively. "That's hardly the point at the moment."

"But you can't possibly have agreed on a contract yet," Thrass said, still momentarily stunned.

"We don't require one," Lisetha said. "Don't worry, soon-to-be-brother, leave that matter to me. I'm sure Thrawn will inform you where and when you need to be. You _did_ plan for Thrass to be your man-at-arms, didn't you?"

"Naturally," Thrawn said dryly. "That _is_ a part traditionally left for me to decide and he is the reasonable option."

"And the rest I can manage quite easily in two days' time," and she sounded half-satisfied with herself and half annoyed that the topic had changed. "Easier than I would have, in fact, since there's no time for Mother to become sentimental and meddle. So there'll be no diverting my attention now with questions about cakes and veils and how many milkstones I'll wear in my necklace. We have more important things to worry about at the moment. I can't very well plead sickness and then appear at dinner tonight as if nothing happened. Especially when I'm not entirely sure I can hide the bruises, or sit in your hard Defense Force mess seats without wincing."

Thrass was not entirely certain it really was that unimportant as there were far too many confusing references there, but Thrawn was giving him that pointed, steely look which meant he would greatly appreciate him dropping this thread of conversation. "I'm sure I can make your excuses. Thrawn, it might actually be politic if you refrained from joining the guests tonight, either."

"Not that I disagree, but why?" Thrawn did not look at his fiancé, and it bothered Thrass a bit that he couldn't tell if it was pique, or if he simply expected her to be in agreement and it was Thrass himself he was irritated with now.

Fortunately, he had logic on his side, and that was one thing Thrawn always respected. "Because Lady Lisetha's absence will be expected. Orkeli and Pierik will have their reactions to it set. You absenting yourself will be unexpected, and I can gauge their reactions to see if either of them suspects why. Conversely, if you go, you'll certainly raise suspicions as it doesn't take a master of observational skills to see you're injured."

Thrawn glanced down at his arm, as if noticing the bruises for the first time. "Easily explained by a minor shipboard accident," he said, but he flinched as he tugged his cuff down to cover it again.

Lisetha's eyes narrowed. "Let me see." If the situation hadn't been a strange combination of serious and mind-boggling, Thrass would have laughed at his brother trying to yank his arm away like a recalcitrant child and just how ruthlessly maternal Lisetha was in grabbing his wrist and pushing up the sleeve. "You _are_ hurt, and don't even bother lying and saying this the only one. Carrying me like that when I could just as easily have walked . . . prideful idiot."

"It's hardly worth mentioning," Thrawn protested, though Thrass noted once Lisetha had a decent grip on him, he didn't seem in much of a hurry to get away. "I wasn't rendered unconscious."

"It was barely for a moment," Lisetha protested. "And even so it was my head I hit, not my legs, and not very hard at that."

"Indeed." Anyone who knew Thrawn even marginally knew that tone. What they likely wouldn't recognize was the gentleness when he brushed her hair back. "Regarding bruises that would call too many things into question . . . ." His fingers brushed across her temple, and she flinched in spite of herself.

"Afraid someone would think you were beating your fiancé?" It would have been a shocking thing to say, if there weren't a distinctly coquettish note of teasing. "It's a scratch, that's all, and in any case Thrass is right, I'll keep myself to my quarters, and tomorrow I'll be careful about hiding anything they can see." But even though she pulled his hand away from her injury, she didn't let go, either.

Thrass wasn't sure if it was a cough or a smothered laugh (he was certainly having to work at that) but either way, it got their attention. "If nothing else, it will certainly give you some time to cover your injuries, or make up a plausible explanation. You both are barely upright. Some rest and confinement to quarters would do you both good. That is an order, Thrawn, you are off-duty until morning watch. And may I suggest you continue this discussion in your quarters, Lady Lisetha, you're less likely to face any intrusions there."

"What makes you think we'd be bothered by interruptions if they did occur?" She was trying to sound the prim aristocrat, but a tiny quaver suggested a laugh, nervous or embarrassed, was threatening to sneak out.

"My having been blessed with the gift of sight," he said dryly. He saw the look Thrawn was giving him but didn't flinch. "And please, do not bother attempting to tell me all the reasons why this abrupt rush to formalize matters is a perfectly logical, cold-blooded political decision. You may succeed in convincing others, but I know _you_ too well, brother, and if I may, sister-to-be, I am beginning to know you."

Thrawn's flat expression hadn't changed, but Thrass thought there was just the slightest grudging concession in his tone when he said, "It might be pleasant to have an uninterrupted conversation for a change. My quarters, however. I'm more confident of the security."

"And it will give you an excuse to ask me to dismiss Serhal so he won't be within shouting distance yet again?" Lisetha sounded entirely too innocent, but Thrass couldn't figure out why until he saw how Thrawn was staring at her. "I realize he turns duty into a vice," she continued, and there was definitely something impish about it.

"That _was_ you in the lift," and it said a great deal for his brother's state of mind that Thrawn sounded less angry than admiring. "Practicing your little disguise?"

"And apparently well. I promise, I never meant to eavesdrop," and only belatedly did Thrass remember the conversation they'd been having that evening, when Thrawn had nearly recalled the lift, certain it had been Lisetha who'd bid them a pleasant evening. "At that point, if I'd backed off and taken the next lift, you'd have been suspicious and the charade would have fallen apart. I had no idea you'd be talking about me."

"A shame we didn't catch you out, as it might have prevented today's misadventure," Thrass said. Thrawn had a strange, distracted look, one he hadn't seen in ages–as if he'd been caught and was for once completely at a loss for an escape or excuse. "Or at minimum, coordinated plans a bit better."

"Perhaps," and Lisetha sounded grudgingly conciliatory. "It might have been more effective to plan rather than stumble across each other." Then she seemed to notice Thrawn's sudden silence. "I said I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"I am sure you didn't." Thrawn still had that odd look on his face.

Lisetha sighed, and Thrass began to think he was getting over being surprised as he wasn't even mildly stunned when she took Thrawn's hand in both hers. "You aren't being a fool. I do hope you've noticed that by now."

Thrawn's lips pressed thin, but then his shoulders sagged just a bit in what might have been relief. "Perhaps not in that regard," he admitted. "But I begin to wonder if I might be mad instead."

"Perhaps, but if you are, then so am I." She didn't release his hand. "I promise I will _try_ to consult you before I enact any more dangerous plans. At this point, I'm not sure what I could do anyway. We have to prove that the workers sent here are disappearing, and we have to figure out where they're going. That's your arena, not mine."

"We have to know where they're going," Thrawn said. He didn't seem inclined to release her hand, either. "That they're leaving at all, to start. The transport they were loading may have departed, but our sensors should have recorded it. Even if not, it may not be too late to do an ion trace on their vector, which will give us a place to start."

"And I will order one, after you two have safely retired," Thrass said. Once again he had the odd feeling they'd forgotten his presence. "If there is an anomalous trace, I will quietly put a patrol ship on that vector, _before_ I mention any such presence to the others."

"Best not to mention it at all. Though, as you will be present with our guests even if I won't, you can bring up the matter of Lady Lisetha's indisposition and make very careful observations of each reaction, most particularly Orkeli and Pierik." Thrawn blinked, and paused, glancing at Lisetha. " _Do_ you suspect your uncle's collusion?"

Her lips pursed. "If it were Grandfather, I would say yes. He's been strangely mercurial, even in Council, lately. Uncle Pierik, though . . . I've never sensed any hostility from him, even lately. He's always been a bit odd, to be frank. Mother says he's always been quite serious about his duties, in fact she'd sometimes hold him up as a proper example of a dutiful aide and heir. But he isn't proud like Grandfather, never advertising rank, and certainly in no great rush to marry and produce an heir. Until recently I'd have called that a family trait, but I seem to take after Father there after all." Once again, her hand tightened around Thrawn's. "I don't feel as if he's involved. But . . . if you observe anything to the contrary, either of you, believe that, not my impressions. It may be he's changed."

Thrass nodded. "And I will consult with you both before taking any action on my findings. Now I suggest you both withdraw to whomever's quarters you'll be occupying." He saw the faintly rebellious look in Thrawn's eyes. "And I meant what I said–you are off-duty until morning watch. I do not want to check the databanks and find you logging in to check on statuses or spy on the bridge watch. If you are needed, someone will call for you."

Thrawn's eyes narrowed, and then he sighed. "I will consider it a test of the crew. If we manage not to have a crisis requiring my attention, I'll consider it a success." He turned to his fiancé. "Given I will have you under more direct surveillance I will at least be sure you won't be precipitating any yourself."

"As if I were the one leading the way into corridors unknown," Lisetha said. "I think we've been dismissed and to be honest, I am a bit hungry. Perhaps, if we're going to be confined to quarters, dinner and a game of _wei-jio_ might be in order?"

"Perhaps they might." Thrawn glanced at his brother. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, though?"

"I need to speak to Serhal anyway. I'm sure he's lurking outside and I don't believe I'll need him to do that for the rest of the night." The smile she gave Thrawn was small, brief, and so intimate Thrass was almost embarrassed to witness it. It vanished, to his immense relief, when she turned to him. "Good evening, Thrass. I'm sure we'll speak tomorrow about whatever you observe tonight."

"My lady," and he returned her nod of farewell. She gave Thrawn's hand a final squeeze before releasing it, and vanished into the corridor.

Thrawn waited until the doors slid shut before turning to his brother. "Was there something you wanted to ask?"

Thrass considered a moment. "Are you absolutely certain you know what you're doing?"

There was a long pause. "Regarding the crisis I am willing to concede exists? I don't have enough information yet." He obviously understood the look on Thrass's face because he continued, "Regarding Lady Lisetha? I thought you were of the opinion I ought to have already pressed my suit to the point of conception, never mind marriage."

"I didn't expect you to actually listen to me," Thrass retorted.

Thrawn seemed to consider that, then gave a half-shrug. "Consider it an epiphany, then. But understand, the two matters are not unrelated. The same forces that confronted us today may not wish our alliance to be secured by marriage. The sooner matters are settled in that regard, the sooner one more weapon against us is removed from their arsenal. And . . . ." He grimaced.

"And?" Sometimes his brother's flair for the dramatic could be downright annoying.

"And the sooner I have one more weapon I can deploy in keeping my lady from indulging her more dangerous instincts," Thrawn said. "As her husband, I may be more persuasive than as a suitor, and I do need to persuade her to show sense. Worrying about someone so concerned with accomplishing their goals they completely disregard their own safety is more stressful than I'd expected."

There wasn't a trace of irony in his tone, and there were so many answers Thrass could have given, but in what he thought was an admirable display of maturity that had taken years of being Thrawn's older brother to achieve, he only said, "I can just imagine."

"If it allows me to avoid awkward, politics-laden diplomatic meals," Lisetha said, studying the _wei-jio_ board between them, "perhaps a few bruises aren't such a high price to pay. Mind your master piece, I may have you this time." She converted four tokens, hiding a satisfied smirk behind a sip of the tangy mulled wine Thrawn had produced as a finish to their meal. _Hoping I'll be just intoxicated enough to give him an easy victory this game_ , she thought.

_At least, I assume he's thinking of the game._

She'd moderated her intake nonetheless. Thrawn was doing much the same, she'd noticed, and she suspected it wasn't out of fear of her _wei-jio_ abilities. He was also moving just a bit cautiously, as if sudden, unexpected action prompted pain. For a moment she entertained the notion of reached out with the Force and checking how much he was hiding, but she restrained herself. There'd been that frisson of revulsion when she'd even mentioned it, the instant of irrationality when she'd mentioned the mind tricks Aleishia could perform, so clear and unmistakable it had, she thought, confirmed her worst fear. He'd reject her, revolted by the abilities she'd tried to hide for so long, justifiably suspicious of powers she could not explain and he could never share or understand. And the risk to him, if she were discovered, or if their child inherited her abilities . . . he was trial-son and common-born. He could not afford to lose everything he'd worked for. He would refuse her. He had to.

Only he hadn't. He'd stared at her as if she'd lost her mind as she'd stammered out her attempt to extricate them from the entanglement he'd clearly now loathe, and then had kissed her with the ferocity of a starving beast falling on prey. It had been her turn to be shocked, and more than a bit frightened, by the sheer, raw, need. At that proximity (if that was the word for two bodies attempting to violate physical law and occupy the same space at the same instant) it was impossible not to scan his emotions and there had been fear, desire, and most of all a kind of frantic possessiveness, as if he'd nearly had something he desperately, desperately wanted snatched away and couldn't even let himself admit the possibility.

All of which had meant he'd been far more coherent than she was. It had been a miracle Aleishia hadn't sensed her response all the way on Csilla. For the first time in her life, for one blissful moment, there was nothing at all but the certainty of being _wanted_. Wanted, and safe, and the utterly miraculous realization that she needed him just as badly as he needed her. The fact they were in imminent danger of death and the situation was far more dangerous than she'd realized had forced her back to herself, but only barely. Then Thrawn had thrown another wild course alteration into the mix with marriage in hand.

Of course she knew what it was. Ever child of a noble house knew. It was just that perhaps someone Pherek or Thaenil's age actually had seen it happen, but it would have been in their grandfather's grandfather's times when last one of the parties was a High Councilor. Marriage was a calculated political choice, and they were long past the days when that required an indissoluble union, with no pre-agreed number of children whose allegiances were negotiated based on birth order and the needs of the Families, no set dates to renegotiate the contract or end the marriage. Marriage in hand, however . . . it was permanent, binding. For life.

Not only their mutual lives. To go through with this meant that, whether they both lived to a prosperous old age or whether one dropped dead the next day and the other lingered on for decades, the marriage was absolute. In the latter, chilling, scenario, the survivor would still be married until their own death. There was good reason more than half the children's tales about marriage in hand were cautionary.

She watched Thrawn as he studied the game board, his attention fixed on the positions of the stones, a myriad of possible attacks and counters cycling through his mind as clearly as if she could see it. He didn't hold back while playing, never permitting her a victory she didn't earn. She was making him fight for this one, tooth and nail, and the thought was deliciously warming. His brow was just the slightest bit furrowed, there was a hint of tension in his lips and at the corners of his narrowed eyes. It was not an expression that did any favors, she supposed, to the rather sharp planes of his features. He was always going to have a severe edge to his expressions, a raptor-like sharpness. But then, she knew now how that could soften in an instant.

Yes, she could easily see looking into that face for the rest of her days.

Thrawn glanced up, and she thought there were just the slightest amused quirk to his lip. "Attempting to distract me, my lady?"

"What makes you think I need to do that?" she retorted archly. "I'm going to beat you in two moves. Perhaps three."

"Perhaps I should have selected a milder beverage," Thrawn said, and she was absurdly pleased by the slight teasing note to his voice. "Clearly the wine has gone to your head." He moved a piece, converting only two of her stones, but the resulting configuration meant she had to protect her master piece–that, or gamble on being able to trap his master in two moves, before he had time to lock hers in place and win yet again.

Gambling. Even if she'd had another option that wasn't retreat, there was no other possible hope of victory.

She flipped another stone, gaining back the two she'd just lost and three more, but leaving her silver master token vulnerable to the start of enclosure. Thrawn's frown deepened. "Carelessness? I might have to summon a medic, considering that blow to your head. Or are you about to outsmart yourself?"

Lisetha only smiled, and took another sip of her drink. It was yet another tactic that would only work once, as any did with Thrawn, but if he was so overconfident, it at least had a chance of working at all. She watched as he pondered again, taking longer, she suspected, than he really needed, trying to make her impatient. She could wait, despite an odd restlessness poking at her. It was, she thought, nothing to do with the game.

Thrawn moved, threatening her master piece exactly as she'd hoped he would, and she resisted the urge to smirk. Three moves, then, as she'd need one more after this. Another small conversion, a feinted mock defense, and he made the move she'd hoped he would, closing on what he thought was her careless opening in her defensive line. Now she didn't hide the pleased smile, and converted an entire corner's worth of stones through the gap his assault had left, locking his gold token into an ironclad trap.

Thrawn's brow furrowed deeply, eyes narrowed to slits, and he leaned forward as if straining for a better viewing angle. She kept her expression schooled to a pleased, serene smile while he clearly searched for any angle of attack or retreat, but there wasn't one. She'd had to rely on his fixating on an opening against her piece, and being quick enough to take advantage before he realized his mistake. Clearly, he'd realized too late. He reached for a piece, paused, reached for another, and then sat back with a sigh.

"I concede defeat, my lady." The wry twist to his lip gave the words an extra ironic note. "A well-earned victory. And in three moves, as you said." He raised his glass in salute, and not even a particularly mocking one.

"I would feign modesty, but as that's only the eighth time I've managed to win, I won't even bother." She raised her own glass. "Perhaps I should claim a forfeit this time."

Thrawn didn't reply for a minute, that level gaze fixed on her and unreadable. "And what would you claim of me?"

Something in the soft tone sent a very pleasant tremor down her spine. But she also had a strange sense of being weighed and measured again. And in any case, there was something far less obvious, and they _did_ have all night if they wished . . . .

Lisetha leaned forward, setting aside her glass. "Tell me about the art."

For a brief moment, there was open surprise on his features, and also a flicker of what almost seemed to be–joy? Then Thrawn's mask was back in place, and he said, "That is a rather broad request."

"I mean, how you analyze it. Today, with the murals. What you see in a painting like the Vercasstorannix. You see things like no one I've ever met before. Tell me how you do it. How does it speak to you?" Even as she spoke the words seem to come of their own accord, and she found herself genuinely hoping he'd agree.

Thrawn studied her for a long moment, then finally said, in a hesitant tone she'd never heard him use before, "I'm not sure I can explain all of it. Some of it's rather intuitive. But I've studied art since . . . well, since I was really aware what it is." She could never imagine him _shy_ , but there was a strange uncertainty, as if he were afraid to share too much of his strange . . . obsession? Study? As if he were just the faintest bit worried she'd find it odd.

Given what she'd shown him she could do, he was, in her opinion, excessively paranoid.

"Please. Even if I can't understand, I want to try." She debated trying a more pleading, winsome, expression, but the goal was not to make him laugh.

Thrawn studied her for another long moment, then nodded. "All right. I'll try, anyway." He rose, extending a hand to aid her to her feet. "I warn you, if you're easily offended, my collection may not be entirely to your taste. Not many of our people enjoy works by alien species but I find studying their works more productive than our own at times."

"If I were easily offended, I suspect we wouldn't be here," Lisetha said dryly, trying to ignore how annoyed she was when he released her hand and went to the computer console.

"Probably so." He was paging through a list of files, clearly making some quick decisions. "I don't have quite the display system here that I really require," he said, almost apologetic. "Or the space to display as many works as I'd like. Someday . . . but at least the holos both allow me to observe pieces I couldn't possibly possess as originals, and it's of course much safer to carry files than the artwork itself even in the case of pieces I do own."

Lisetha nodded, not entirely understanding, but then she'd never been forced to live in communal barracks or aboard a ship for longer than a few nights, and it would of course limit one's personal possessions. And she had the luxury of owning real artwork, without having to consider either space or cost. Never mind the inherent risk of transporting original pieces of any significant value. She watched as Thrawn made a few final adjustments, and then the holoprojectors came on, and three flat works appeared. All three were paintings, she noted, but the style was nothing like typical Chiss art. Instead of anything she might have called representational, or even abstractly so, the substrate seemed textured, sliced through with thousands of what appeared to be luminescent filaments. The pattern they created made, initially, no sense at all–there were no right angles or spirals that created a logical pattern to her eyes, and the colors seemed to shift as she looked. "The color change–is than an artifact of the holo?"

Thrawn raised an eyebrow. "No, there is a change–the paint is mixed with different blending media on purpose to alter the refraction and affect the viewer's perception of color. For the creator species, it's much easier to appreciate the effect as the Cucteni have eyes with a much more dramatic curvature to the lens than our own."

Lisetha nodded absently, fighting an absurd urge to try and touch the paintings. The way the colored lines seemed to ripple in and out of the substrate made the urge almost irresistible but of course, it was only a holo. "I would think that would affect how they perceive distance and colors in the real world. I don't recall hearing the species name before. Are they spacefaring?"

"Look at their art, and tell me yourself." If he'd sounded smug, she might have been more irate than she was. "Consider each painting. I'll give you a hint–from your left to right, there is approximately twenty standard years between each painting."

Lisetha bit back a sharp retort about the just-slightly-condescending edge to that, and focused on the colors, the textures, the patterns . . . . she couldn't quite grasp the exact lines, but looking back and forth between the second and third paintings, finally, she saw a hint of difference. "Here," she said, hating how uncertain it sounded, "in the angles. Something's changed. The lines are shorter, and straighter, and there are more intersections. Something's disrupted them–first contact with alien life?"

Thrawn's smile was the most sincere and open she'd ever seen him have. "Precisely. There are also slight variations in the colors, both those used and in how quickly they shift on changes to the viewing angle, and you haven't made a detailed study of any originals so you can easily be forgiven for missing the slight changes in the substrate. The Cucteni had their first extra-system encounter with other life. The Gepids, as it happened."

"So the different underlying texture you think is a response to the Gepid skin papillae?" On a very close inspection it did seem to now have a nubblier surface, rather than the caked-on longer streaks of the earliest piece.

"Possibly, or rather how the Cucteni eye perceives it." She'd heard _that_ tone from tutors, when they thought she was getting ahead of herself. "So studying these paintings has told us about how the Cucteni see, when they first met other intelligent life, what they value–texture, color–how disruptive the experience was and how it filtered to their culture. There are other aspects, of course, more . . . instinctual." He studied her for a moment, then turned back to the controls. The three paintings vanished. "See what you make of this."

The tri-d sculp was egg-shaped, roughly, and the surface was colored with rounded swirls and teardrops, black against the russet background. As Lisetha circled the holo, the designs seemed to bulge in and out in an almost nauseating fashion, as if the timing was just slightly out of sync with her vision. Still, the general pattern was familiar. "Trypillan, yes?"

"A very typical example of their work," Thrawn said agreeably. "And no, the sensation that the patterns are shifting isn't an artifact of the holo capture. The effect is exaggerated in reproduction, but most races with binocular vision find Trypillan sculpture-in-the-round disorienting."

"Which suggests their vision is monocular," Lisetha said, trying to find a way to look at the sculp without staring at it directly. "Eyes mounted in such a way that they can focus on different parts of the work at once."

"Which changes the effect of the patterns to a much more three-dimensional one," Thrawn finished for her. "Besides simply being a fascinating way of abstracting their view of the universe, the form and the age tells us about their vision, literally, which affects their ship and weapons designs, and about their cultural views. This piece is titled _Second Waning_ and is part of a series by Ab'arax!kwe," and she envied the fluidity with which he rendered the hard glottal stops of the Trypillan language, something she was happy to leave to translation programs, "a third-phase Elder artist who worked almost exclusively from their in-system colonies. Despite having been active well after their first contact with an alien species-ours, as it happens–and spending most of his working life off their homeworld and addressing themes related to the colonies and alien contact, he adhered to very strongly to classical techniques, and is still one of the most revered artists in Trypillan society." Thrawn eyed her speculatively. "Which tells us . . . what?"

"That as a general rule, Trypillans value traditional customs and forms, but don't resist new themes and are willing to adapt," she said, feeling more confident in her interpretation.

"But," and Thrawn's enthusiasm for the topic was now readily apparent even if she didn't attempt to sense his emotions, "not to the point of abandoning the basic traditional form. You can see how that would translate to military tactical analysis, yes? Or diplomatic strategy?"

"They won't be unable to adjust to a new problem, but the underlying framework remains the old ways," Lisetha said, half to herself as a little of his strange system began to make sense.

"And when abruptly confronted with a novel threat, they _will_ default to the most classical thought patterns," Thrawn said eagerly. "Which is exactly _un_ like Mysian psychology, as their cultured glasswork shows when you compare pieces made across their Expansion Period with each other."

He brought up holos of half a dozen of the fragile, half-natural, half-guided-growth crystalline works, then there were flats again, representational works depicting seas so realistic and river valleys so expansive and lit with yellow sunlight she would have sworn she could plunge into the cool water or bask in the light's warmth, a series of clay pots deceptive in their rough-baked simplicity, more light-works that flickered and danced like living flame until you looked long enough to see the repeating patterns, portrait sculptures somehow more two-dimensional than the most rudimentary Chiss ancestor paintings, flat blocks of stone, miniature plant-scapes built into painstakingly perfected 'natural' substrates, even works where the holo had to be adjusted as the race which produced it saw colors into ranges of light Chiss eyes could not see . . . Lisetha sometimes recognized names of races and even in a few cases saw familiar styles of works, but Thrawn clearly knew each piece intimately, from who had produced it to the materials used at times down to the chemical-molecular components. Even those Lisetha, who had until now considered herself exceptionally open-minded, foundd distressingly plain or even outright ugly could prompt fascinated, nearly loving descriptions and endless amounts of details that she, and likely almost any of their people would never have noticed on their own examination.

He was so even-handed, in fact, that she couldn't help asking, "But if you set aside everything that can be learned to some higher purpose," she said, as they examined a piece that sadly had touch as an integral part of its nature (the entire surface was covered in thick, plush, wavering fur that released a different balance of pheromones depending on the biochemistry of the person touching it.) "Do you have a piece that's your favorite? That you'd have just for the pleasure of owning it?"

For an instant, Thrawn froze, as if he'd either never considered the question, or at least had never expected to be asked. Then he smiled, a strange, secret expression she'd never seen before, and turned to the controls. "As a rule, that answer changes, depending on when you ask," he said, as he went through his obviously-extensive catalog again. "Or on who is asking, as to some I wouldn't admit to any interest beyond the academic. But at the moment . . . ."

She shouldn't have been surprised, she realized, as the tactile sculp vanished and was replaced by a very clear holo of a painting. Still, seeing the Vercasstorannix so close again caused a mild start, but to her surprise she felt no pang of longing to own it again herself. Even if she had a look at Thrawn's expression, never mind the emotions she could feel radiating from him in the Force, would have cured her covetousness. Simply looking at the painting, he seemed to lose all of the tension he normally carried, the sharp planes of his features softening. Not to the point she might have called him handsome in a conventional manner, but for once, she might have used the word pleasant. "If you're trying to thank me again, it's really not necessary," was all she murmured. "But why this one?"

He smiled, and spoke in a quiet tone she didn't recall hearing before. "Just _look_ at it," he said softly.

She looked. First at the painting, which was as dizzyingly captivating in holo as in person, but then at Thrawn. "I see," she said, just as softly, and on an impulse more powerful than any before, she slipped her hand into his.

His fingers curled around hers, thumb tracing gently across the back of her hand. "Why did you give me the painting?" he asked, without taking his eyes from it.

Lisetha paused, not because she needed to think of the answer, but in mild bemusement at how strangely clear it was. "Because just from how you looked at it, I knew that owning it even for only one lifetime would give you more happiness than anyone in my family would derive if we owned it for ten generations." She fingered her necklace with her free hand, tracing the medallion's facets that she knew now by heart. "Why did you choose this for me?"

There was a long pause, and she suspected Thrawn did have to consider the answer, not just how to phrase it. "Because I noted the resemblance of the stone to a _wei-jio_ stone, and having played the game with you, I knew that it would make you happy."

He turned to face her, without stepping back, and raised her hand, pressing her palm to his heart again. Lisetha tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze steadily, and she saw the same soft contentment there as when he looked at the painting. "And people will say we've rushed matters," she murmured.

"From the sound of it," Thrawn said, with a whisper of the droll edge that was the mark of his sense of humor, "we've been far more inefficient than two sensible people have any right to be."

"At least we've come to our senses now," she said, and would have said more, but he bent his mouth to hers. This was slower, no urgency, gentle exploration and she let her arms slide around him, pulling him closer. When he paused so they both could breathe, he held her tight, and she could feel the tremor through his entire frame.

"I think," he murmured, his lips brushing her hair as he spoke, "I had best see you back to your quarters."

She would have been irate, if she weren't suddenly suppressing the urge to laugh. "All this time to get me alone, and now you want to be rid of me?"

Thrawn sighed, and she noticed his grasp didn't loosen any. "In two days, there will be nothing anyone can say about impropriety that will matter. I'm a patient man."

"I'm not a patient woman," and she pressed closer, refusing to relinquish her hold on him. "I don't want to wait two days. I don't want to wait two minutes."

He had gone very still. "In two days," he said finally, not looking down at her, "no one can say that you aren't mine."

Lisetha looked up. His tone was quiet, vulnerable in a way even his fear during the fight in the tunnel had not been. And for the first time, she saw just the slightest hint of the common-born soldier he had been once, and the _trial_ -son he was now–always required to prove his worth if he wanted to keep the honors he had earned. Now with the grandest prize he had ever been offered within his grasp, and wanted more than he'd ever thought he would, the notion she could somehow be taken away was one fear he would rather not face.

She pressed her hand to his heart. "Speak the words now, then. Never mind no one but us will hear. If you want, I can threaten you, offer you distractions, offer you the richest bribe my family can afford, to turn away, to make it halfway proper."

Thrawn was staring at her, and it was the only time she could recall seeing anything the could be said to resemble fear in his eyes. Carefully, he lowered his arms, and said quietly, "There is only one thing I ask from your House, and I would rather go empty-handed than leave without it." He made the formal, archaic words sound as if he'd only just now thought of them, the way whatever ancient ancestor who'd inspired the ceremony had said them.

She understood the impulse, because the response felt just as right. "Then if my husband is prepared to take me," she said, "I am prepared to go."

He took her hand in his, the formal, stylized resting of their palms against each other, and she shivered in spite of herself as he lead her a formalized first step together, his fingers trembling the entire time. Lisetha had to bite down as a giggle threatened to escape, and his eyes narrowed.

"You find something amusing, wife?"

Never in her life had a word sent such a warm, delicious flush through her. "Forgive me, husband," she said, and that word was almost as intoxicating to say as the other was to hear. "Only I find it hard to believe the great commander is afraid of the one conquest he can be absolutely certain of."

"I'm certain of nothing when it comes to you." There was nothing uncertain in the feel of the arm around her waist. Thrawn raised his other hand to her cheek and she closed her eyes at the gentle touch. It was the briefest of caresses and then he pulled her to him, kissing her with all the ferocity and command of their first, far more desperate, embrace.

She surrendered willingly, for once content to be the conquered one. There was something in his touch, in how his mouth moved against her skin, that said in a way he was still the supplicant, scarcely believing that she was, truly, his. As she arched against him, her arms sliding across the strong shoulders as he pulled her robe down her back, she wondered if he could ever understand how true it was, beyond anything the ancient words could convey. She tried to reach out with the Force, sense the source of that uncertainty and drive it away, but her emotions spiraled from her grasp and she gave up and focused on the now, which was _him_.

Even when there was nothing left between them, only bare skin against bare skin, she had that faint doubt, until he murmured her name. "My Lisetha," hardly a breath in her ear, but it made her shudder and gasp.

"Yours," was all she managed in reply, and then she forgot agreements and politics and even the Force and gave herself up to him utterly.


	10. Whispers in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, this is much shorter than most others, but I did eat up a lot of time on “Hidden Fortress” (Parck fans and people who’d like to pretend the Jedi Academy Trilogy never happened in any timeline should check it out!) And we can’t have nonstop actions and high-stakes cliffhangers all the time. And I promise, next update, we WILL get their for-public-consumption wedding. If Chiss can get ulcers, Lisetha’s about to give her mother one in our next episode, which as usual will follow another chapter of Resurrection. Apologies in advance for any potential delays, as the holidays, my Mom’s birthday, and two anthology/contest deadlines are coming up fast.
> 
> Also, rated T for not-super-explicit-but-you-know-what’s-going-on sexual content. (Don't worry, AO3 readers, I'll slip some M stuff in later!)

 

 

Lisetha slept, her body curved against his, and still wide awake Thrawn marveled at how perfect she felt beside him. Never before had he simply wanted to lie here afterwards, reveling in the feel of bodies pressed close after the act was complete. There was no tension in her, no hint of a glow showing through the long, dark lashes, her breath soft and even, her mane of cobalt hair cascading across them both like a silken sheet. He combed his fingers through the long tresses, shivering at the recent memory of tangling his hands in them as Lisetha arched back in ecstasy. It was one of the few clear memories he had, the rest a wild blend of needing, wanting, taking, the satin-softness of her skin, the taste of her, the quiet gasps and high cries as she clung to him, took him deep within her, begged for him as if she’d die if he denied her.

No chance of that, he thought hazily. Even here, now, sated as he’d never dreamed possible, some part of his mind could not grasp that such a beautiful, highborn, brilliant creature was so completely his. Of all the things he’d imagined when he allowed himself to dream, all the successes and victories and honors, not only being married to one of the highest-born but her loving him, loving a common-born soldier who lived for war, not to please his betters, had never crossed his mind. He was never going to be one of them and until now that had never seemed important. A trial-son would be a “real” member of a Family when the adoption was made final, and it should have made no difference, but everyone knew that especially where such ancient noble clans as hers were concerned it mattered, everything mattered, and she should have been as far beyond his reach as the galactic core.  
  
That she had truly given herself to him, body and soul, was utterly inconceivable.  
  
Only not, he found himself hoping, literally. It was, of course, pure biology, the base instinct of the male to get the female he desired with his offspring, and it was far too early for that sort of thing. The timing of that would be her choice, as the more inconvenienced party, and as their firstborn would belong to her House. Only . . . what a child they could have. An heir, with her political fire, his military genius . . . And, he thought, stroking her hair back from the lovely, aristocratic features, so peaceful in sleep, perhaps looks from their mother’s side. Especially if it were a girl . . . . He was being watched, he realized, and he felt an absurd stab of guilt at having woken her.

“You aren’t sleeping?” Her voice was soft, intimate, sweet.  
  
“I feel no need to.” He pondered that realization for a moment. “I prefer to watch you.”

She smiled that teasing smile “The male protects his mate after he’s made sure of her?”

“A reasonable evolutionary development,” he acknowledged. “After such exertions you must need rest.” He stopped himself before mentioning that other possibility, the instinct of the male to protect both his mate and their potential offspring.

He saw the color rise just a bit, and she looked away. “Was it . . . I know I haven’t any real experience. Hadn’t, rather.” Not surprising, given the risks a careless romance carried for someone of her station even before she became Aristocra. And, a small greedy part of his mind noted, she had of course not met him before, so of course she had never been tempted. “Was it . . . did I . . . you are pleased, yes?”

Thrawn realized what she was asking and was torn between an unreasoning embarrassment and the urge to laugh. That would not reassure her, and in any case, there was only one honest answer. “You are everything I dreamed you’d be, and more.” He ran his finger lightly across her lips, loving how she sighed. “I can’t remember ever feeling this content, wife.” My wife, my Lisetha, mine and no one else’s. The thought brought a smile that he was sure looked ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it.

She giggled, which was just as ridiculous, but for some reason it only seemed charming now. “Dreamed? My warrior indulges in things like dreams?”

“More than I care to admit where you are concerned,” he said. Warrior? Not commander, but warrior? Is that how she sees me? I could grow to like this very much indeed. “You try my willpower.”

“I’m only glad I overcame it.” Almost shyly, she reached up and caressed his cheek. “It took me so long to realize I would have no one but you. Then I was so sure you’d never want me, once you knew–“

“Sh.” He pressed a finger to her lips, then kissed her, stopping that line of thought. “I’m only irritated with myself for resenting the entire notion for so long, even once I had realized that while arranged marriage is arcane and foolish, in these circumstances I was luckier than I had any right to be. Whatever this mystical talent of yours is, it hasn’t changed that.”

Lisetha sighed and settled closer against him, if that were possible. “Good. Because I can only assume the Force-the power I told you about–is what directed me to you. Otherwise I can’t imagine how I got so lucky. A sensible daughter of the Second would have gone through four or five others on the list before resorting to a trial-son of the Eighth.”

“You had a list?” He traced his finger slowly down her neck.

“Stacks of offers,” she murmured, closing her eyes as his lips followed his hands. He loved the little sounds she made, the way her breath caught, and he noted each particular noise and what caress elicited it. “I insulted some very highborn people by jumping directly to the Eighth’s eccentric trial-son. You’ve no idea–oh, gods!”

He smiled against her skin. “Regretting your decision?” He kissed that particular spot again, and then nipped teasingly. He was rewarded with a wordless moan that was as intoxicating as the feel of her beneath him.

“Well, I haven’t had much time to think,” she said, her breath coming faster, her hands hesitantly exploring. He caught her wrist, guided her touch until the hesitancy faded, replaced by eagerness. “Thrawn . . . please . . . .” It was half a sob.

It was not unlike conducting a campaign, the part of his mind that never stopped thinking noted, there were tactics, methods, gambits he could try, counters that he had to respond to and make note of, and of course there was conquest and the blissful rewards of victory to enjoy as long as he could make it last for them both. This time when it was over he did sleep, or at least drifted in a warm, hazy semi-consciousness, Lisetha clinging even closer than before.

The slight shudder of the deck and bulkhead snapped him to full wakefulness, and he felt Lisetha’s sudden alert stillness. “We’ve come out of hyperspace,” she said unnecessarily.

“Yes,” Thrawn said, reluctantly sitting up and surprised at just how much he wished he didn’t have to. “And unless we’ve lost track of time far more than I suspect we have, not on schedule.” He searched a moment until he found his trousers and uniform shirt, Lisetha watching him with the sheets pulled up to her chin as if she were suddenly cold. There were things he could do, of course, to warm her–

Thrawn shoved the thought aside and fumbled for the comm. “Bridge, report.” Thrass could say what he liked, but this was an anomaly worthy of investigation.

“We detected an abnormal wave fluctuation in the hyperdrive, Commander.” His people understood not to prevaricate.

“Did it trigger an emergency abort or is this precautionary?” He suspected the answer; there should have been alarms if the hyperdrive reactor had failed and scrammed itself.

The voice from the bridge confirmed it. “Precautionary, sir. Engineering is conducting a scan.”

Thrawn shrugged into his jacket, noting with some relief all the fastenings were still in place. He’d been in enough of a hurry undressing a hook or button might have torn away. “What is our current location?”

“Interstellar space, sector thirty-three by twenty-four by seventy-eight.” Not quite the middle of nowhere, but far enough from Csilla, or indeed any inhabited world at sublight to set off a small sense of unease. “We have notified the passengers of the situation and requested they remain in their quarters. They are complying, though comm was unable to reach Councilor Reli’set’harana directly.”

“The Councilor is with me, and is quite safe,” Thrawn said, privately congratulating himself on the perfectly professional tone. “She will return to her quarters immediately.” There was a sound from behind him that might have been objection, but he ignored it for the moment. “I’ll be on the bridge shortly. Has Mitth’ras’saffis been notified?”

“He is on his way to engineering,” the duty officer replied, and Thrawn grimaced. Thrass had a thing or two to learn about delegating.

“Very well. I will join him there instead. Notify me immediately of any new information. Commander out.” Terminating the connection, he turned back towards the bed and found Lisetha already on her feet, half-dressed and twisting her hair into a quick, disorderly knot that was somehow more alluring than any of the soft, carefully-constructed updos he had yet seen her wear. Easy, too easy, to unfasten the hastily-wrapped road and make that hair tumble out of its careless knot . . . Focus! There will be more than enough time later. All the time in the galaxy. One foretaste shouldn’t make you an addict! “I take it you heard?”

“And I will return to my quarters like an obedient civilian passenger,” she said, with such a demure, downcast gaze he had to fight down an urge to laugh.

“I don’t expect miracles, just for you to follow protocol. For your own safety, wife,” he said, before she could voice the objection he could see forming. “If this is a serious mechanical failure–“

“Evacuation will be easier if we’re all where we’re supposed to be.” She secured her robe after taking a moment to find the sash. How it had gotten that far across his quarters, Thrawn didn’t care to speculate. “And it’s probably best I reassure Serhal about my safety. Not that he has any doubts about you, of course.”

“More fool him.” It was a complete waste of time, but he caught her by the arms, pulled her to him, and indulged in a lingering kiss, reveling in how she relaxed into him. “I should call for an escort.”

“I can find my own way, and I can take care of myself.” She closed her eyes, leaning into his embrace a moment longer before stepping reluctantly back. “See to your ship, Commander.”

“As you wish, Aristocra.” He fought the sudden, unprofessional urge to tell her to wait, to be here when he returned, whenever that might be. Two more days! He turned quickly before he could be distracted yet again, and by the time he was into the corridor, he had managed to file away the vivid memories of the last few hours and begun to catalog the problems that might be affecting the hyperdrive, the better to have reasonable questions ready for the crew when he arrived in engineering.

  
Lisetha did not bother with subterfuge as she returned to the lower deck where the guest quarters were. The emergency lights were flickering their yellow warning status and there should not have been anyone outside their quarters to see either her state of disarray, or the smile she was losing her battle to control. It had never seemed fair, entirely, that as heir and then Aristocra she’d been tacitly expected to refrain from indulging in certain recreational activities for their own sake, but now that made excellent sense. If this were normal, this giddy insanity, the utter loss of herself, longing for nothing more than five more minutes, hours, lifetimes, in his arms, what a disaster that could be when a foolish young heir presumptive gave in with the wrong person.

But how could it be normal? How could anything about Thrawn ever be normal, even this, the basest of instincts? It was not in her nature to cede control and yet she had, willingly, and he had been so firmly in command even at the height of it. Lying dazed in his arms as she came back to herself, she had never in her life felt so perfectly safe and secure.

Except, perhaps, in the moment when he took her hand, and lead her in that ceremonial step, their first together as one, as husband and wife. There has been nothing but a clarity unlike any she’d ever felt that this was right, the most right thing she had ever done. It was a shame in a way that no one had witnessed it, which also of course meant they were still only betrothed in the law’s eyes, but in a way she was glad, ecstatic even, that they had been alone. Something so miraculous might have been cheapened by witnesses. They knew the truth, and if they had to complete the whole ceremony for others to be recognized by law, that was simply a pantomime. They already belonged to each other. Let her family object, let half the Council think she was mad, let the whole galaxy gawk and gossip if it wished. She was Thrawn’s, and he was hers, and that was simply that.

Her Force-senses warned her of heightened alert, not alarm yet but someone clearly on a mission, so she was not startled when Serhal appeared around the corner as she turned down the corridor leading to her quarters. “I am all right,” she said, before he could ask.

“So I gathered.” He looked her over critically, though, gaze lingering on the disheveled knot of hair. “Your fiancé is called to deal with this disruption?”

She almost corrected him. The urge to shout it to anyone who’d listen was nearly overpowering. Husband. My husband, until the day we die. I am Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s wife and if I am never more or less that will be enough for a lifetime. “Thrawn is en route to engineering, as is his brother the Syndic. From what I understand this is a precautionary measure and we are in no immediate danger, but they would prefer we remain out of the way and prepared if necessary to evacuate.”

“So we’ve been told.” Serhal was still giving her a searching look, and she did her best to maintain her composure. “I suggest we return to your quarters promptly, then. Though I suppose you’d have been safe enough where you were.”

Her face warmed a bit. “If that’s a subtle way of asking if I’d planned to remain where I was until morning shift, mind your own business.” Strictly speaking, of course, her location and her bodily safety were Serhal’s primary business more than anyone’s, but in some matters he’d just have to become accustomed to being left out. “If we have to evacuate, best we’re all where we’re supposed to be.”

“Do you think we’ll have to?” Serhal fell into step beside her.

“Based on what I heard, no, but as things are of late? I wouldn’t be surprised.” Someone here was allied with the dark one. And while there was no reason to think their assailant in the mine had survived the collapse, there was no reason to think he hadn’t, either. She shuddered at the memory of his sense in the Force. Aleishia had said the Dark Side was cold. She hadn’t mentioned the oil-slick sense of corruption, the dissociating sense of things lurking in the shadows, the sheer bone-chilling terror of it. A few bruises were a small price to pay for escaping that creature, and its mysterious “machine”, in relatively one piece. The thought that he or an agent of the same powers was aboard their ship made her shiver. “I don’t like any of this. Not the disappearing workers, and not that, barring you, Thrawn, Aleishia and Thrass, I don’t know who I can trust to tell about it.”

Serhal nodded, and was about to speak, when instead his arm shot out and he pushed her into an alcove between doors and blocked her with his body. “Someone’s coming.”

Lisetha bit back an automatic reproach, and reminded herself that she was not supposed to be blissfully oblivious with Serhal minding their surroundings. His hand was near the charric in its holster. Lisetha had to fight down the urge to reach for her lightsaber, as even if she’d been wearing it, this was not the time or place unless there were no alternative. Some Jedi you’re turning out to be, she could almost hear Aleishia say. Calming her mind, she reached out with the Force. The sense of the person coming was agitated, but not frightened. Not precisely. She furrowed her brow, closing her eyes and trying to block out her own thoughts and simply feel. Uneasy, uncertain, not fearful of their own safety, the unquiet mind of someone afraid of being caught. And it was a presence she knew.

Orkeli. Now, what are you doing out and about during an alert?

She opened her eyes and peered around Serhal’s shoulder. Her fellow Councilor was at the opposite end of the corridor near the opposite crossway, looking back into the other gangway as if watching someone. He glanced nervously down towards where they were hiding and instinctively she pulled Serhal deeper into the shadows of their inadequate cover. If they didn’t move, with the evening running lights, he might not see them in the dimness.

He didn’t. Turning back to whomever he was addressing, he spoke again, and Lisetha drew on another of those seemingly-underhanded skills Aleishia assured her were simply a part of normal Jedi training, and listened, letting the Force carry the words, amplify them, so she could hear at least Orkeli’s part of the conversation.

“–wish your superiors had warned me,” he was saying. “If you wanted . . . on the station would have been easier. We’re going direc . . . and this will be difficult to . . . .” There was a pause as if someone else was speaking, but she couldn’t see them, couldn’t focus–they were gray, imprecise, not someone she knew, not even for certain another Chiss. “I know, I know,” and Orkeli sounded almost placating. “I didn’t anticipate . . . bad influence. It can be . . . if the Families intervene.”

His voice was moving, coming closer, and she tried to lean out to see who was with him. Serhal pushed her back, though, and kept her in the shadows until they heard the door to Orkeli’s quarters slide open, a pause, and then the hiss of it sliding shut and locking. She didn’t have to warn Serhal to give them a ten-count before he cautiously stepped back into the corridor, looked up and down, and then gestured for her to follow. Lisetha kept listening, stretching with the Force, but she sensed nothing from Orkeli’s quarters as they passed. Waiting, though, as Serhal opened her own quarters and checked inside, she glanced down the corridor and saw a movement at another door. Just a brief one, too quick to identify, but followed by the distinct sound of a door sealing shut.

And she was fairly certain the door was to the quarters being used by her uncle Pierik.


	11. Hand in Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As promised, the Chiss society wedding of the year! Or at least the one they'll all be gossiping about. Complete with editorializing servants, an emotive mother of the bride, ancient traditions, surprise guests, and I even managed to mention that serious plot stuff, too.

 

Aleishia shook her head at the absurd complexity of the deceptively-simple-looking shift and sash and overtunic Lisetha had laid out and which her servant-cum-Master was supposed to help her dress in. Everything was in shades of pale blue, some so pale it was almost a blue-tinged white, except for the sash, which richly embroidered in Second Family green and gold over white. "Isn't this awfully close to your mourning clothes to be suitable for a wedding?"

Lisetha, who was wearing the plainest base-layer shift, wrapped tight in a way that _had_ to restrict her movement, smiled serenely into the mirror at the reflection of Aleishia behind her. The medallion on its plain gold chain glittered at her throat. Apparently, it was not in keeping with tradition to wear ordinary jewelry, but hidden against her skin was as far as Lisetha would concede the point. "White with black stitching is mourning. White with blue is for a wedding. White is all transitions, and death is just one of many." Her smile became just faintly dreamy, a very alien expression indeed. "In a little while, I hope, it will be time to start thinking of very tiny shifts in white with pale red, and a blanket embroidered with green and burgundy, since our first little one will be Second Family first, Eighth Family second."

"Given your mood on your return home, I'd have guessed there was a chance that you're well on your way." Aleishia tried to keep her tone teasing, especially as nothing about her apprentice's sense in the Force suggested she was already pregnant. Though if the Chiss were like humans in that respect as well, it might simply be too soon even for a Jedi to know. But the way that Thrawn had chosen to escort her from the ship when they'd returned two days ago, how Lisetha had walked just a bit closer beside him and how they had lingered a moment too long as he bowed over her hand . . . Aleishia didn't have to be Force-sensitive to recognize the new signs of intimacy, or how Lisetha seemed as if an enormous burden had been lifted. More than simple physical boundaries had apparently been eliminated between them.

From the way Lisetha's face flushed, she'd been thinking something similar. "I don't know if I hope so or not. On the one hand, marrying now is only the first step-until I have an heir, my brother still has a claim on the Council Seat. I can't name another heir temporarily from outside the blood without it being a difficulty once I do have a child. The sooner I'm pregnant, the sooner I have a secure heir. On the other, given what we know about what's happening, and more what we don't know . . . ." She bit her lip. "Children are so . . . fragile."

Aleishia realized she was clutching the sash so tightly, her knuckles must be white beneath her gloves. "I know," she said softly, and tried to push away the thought of her own daughter, of Mihall, of the gray, bleak despair–

Lisetha's hands gripped her wrists, and Aleishia realized she'd been squeezing her eyes closed. "What have you told me?" her apprentice said softly. She spoke her own language and used a form implying great respect. "There is no death, there is the Force. I'm sorry, though, if I was thoughtless."

Aleishia shivered, but it must have simply been the difference in their skin temperatures, she told herself. "It is I who should apologize," she said. "You have a right to your happiness. Today especially." _May it not be so fleeting as mine_.

Lisetha returned to her seat before the mirror, studying the equally-complex hair ornaments resting on the table. "If you're hoping for excessive displays of celebration, I'm afraid you'll be very disappointed in our weddings, especially this kind," she said, picking up a brush, but only studying it thoughtfully. "Though of course you're right. I _am_ very happy. I shouldn't be. I should be concerned. Thrawn's comm yesterday was vague as always-he takes caution a bit too far sometimes-but I gather that they've completed analysis of the engineering and sensor reports from our unscheduled stop and the physical inspection of the hyperdrive. There was nothing anyone could point to as a failure, but there _were_ two odd sensor readings, one on dropping out of hyperspace, and one immediately before the hyperdrive anomaly corrected itself."

Aleishia grimaced. "Combine that with the conversation you and Serhal overheard, I think we can safely eliminate the possibility of an accident or coincidence."

"Yes," Lisetha said, still fiddling with her hairbrush. "But the ship is crewed by people loyal to the Eighth House. There's no one who'd hide a ship docking or other transfer. And there's no way to do that without the crew being aware."

"That we know of." If the dark ones had mastered that level of stealth . . . Aleishia put the thought aside. "Though it may be simpler. Crew can be bought–"

Lisetha shook her head emphatically, for a Chiss an outright flagrant display. "No. Thrawn and Thrass chose this crew. They're from the Eighth Phalanx. They wouldn't have missed a traitor or a spy."

Aleishia started to point out that while they were both certainly thorough, and fond of higher standards than most, neither were infallible. But not only did Lisetha know that, it was hardly appropriate to question the competency of the groom to the bride on her wedding day. "If you _really_ won't be needing us for the next four days, Serhal and I could backtrack to the coordinates where your ship dropped out of hyperspace. No one would notice, or if they did they'd simply think you were putting us out of the way."

"And you two could have your own time alone?" Now Lisetha was positively smirking. "In all seriousness, yes. I'm not saying Thrass missed anything, but you know better than anyone what we're looking for."

"Then I'll speak with Serhal later today, after the festivities." Aleishia looked at the ribbons, pearls, combs, and the delicate veil made of the native and very expensive merssah silk. "Did you need help with your hair?" Not that she had the slightest idea where to begin.

"I will," and Lisetha's sense was suddenly somewhat closed. "I wonder that Mother and Kelah aren't here yet. I asked them to come this morning, and to dress for a formal occasion. I'm sure they think it's just a formal betrothal signing." There was something decidedly impish in her tone at that.

"I'm sure they'll come if you asked." Aleishia was sure of no such thing, if Als'ele'kadre's previous feelings about this marriage were still even partially in force. "Not your brother, though?"

"Of course not." There were likely areas of Csilla's surface with higher temperatures than Lisetha's frosty tone. "I did have to extend a polite invitation to Grandfather, but I doubt he'll put in an appearance, either. Rifenlas, though, of the First Family, agreed to come and stand in for my father."

"I'm not quite sure I understand what this all entails, or why you had to put things together so quickly," Aleishia admitted. "I thought the contractual process was normally rather prolonged. Serhal told me a little, such as his role, which sounds very strange–"

"A holdover, like most thing in this ceremony," Lisetha said, "from the days when we were a much more primitive people and had things like genuine guard captains who really did have to protect us. He won't actually have to hurt anyone, let alone force Thrawn to fight him to get in the house. Not unless my brother does decide to turn up and cause an issue in which case I may do some fighting myself. As for Rifenlas, I need someone to act in Father's place because someone has to speak for my Family, I can't as I'm the bride, and even if Mother's father were likely to come, he's only Fourth. He doesn't have the rank to speak for me in this."

"I'm going to pretend I understood all that," Aleishia said. She picked up the shift, noting the weave was just a bit heavier than most of the Chiss clothing she was familiar with. "Dress first, perhaps, then your hair?"

Lisetha once again had that odd, closed off sense. "Yes, I suppose that would be best." She rose, raising her arms as Aleishia helped her carefully slip it over hear head, holding the neck wide to avoid smudging the cosmetics Lisetha had applied. That was another strange thing–normally, Lisetha shunned any sort of makeup, even the small amounts someone like her sister used as a matter of course. Today, though, she had used a whitish-blue power to make her face as pale as ice, and kohl sticks in black to darken her brows and smudge her outer eyelids, with a red stick with a shimmering element lining her eyes and enhancing their glow. The effect made her profoundly alien, even compared to her people's normal appearance, mask-like, or like the ancestor portraits with their flat faces and matte skin.

Lisetha adjusted the long shift so the front folds lay just so, and Aleishia fastened the series of tiny ceramic buttons up the back. The sleeveless floor-length tunic was next, and she was surprised again at the weight. The embroidered designs shimmered against the pale blue fabric and she realized the silver color was fine-spun metal threads. Lisetha studied the fall of the tunic critically, but sighed. "A bit short, but it will have to do." She shook her head bemusedly. "And he wanted to know if I could be ready by evening of the day we returned."

Aleishia kept her own council. Two days seemed like asking a great deal if the flurry of activity Lisetha had been in since her return was any indication (it was a testament to how much they loved their Aristocra that the kitchen workers hadn't quit in protest), but on the other hand, her own 'wedding' had involved little more than she and Mihall pledging themselves, as much in the Force as aloud, so she had little frame of reference. A tightening in her throat kept her from speaking as she began wrapping the green and gold sash around Lisetha's waist. A thin cord fastened to one end wrapped around her waist, but that seemed to leave too much and Lisetha shook her head.

"It ties in the back, double-knotted," she said, pulling the fastening around as far as she could reach. "Make sure it doesn't shift."

"Between this and the buttons, isn't this going to be a bit awkward for you to take off?" Aleishia tugged the slick silken cord until it didn't seem inclined to work itself loose.

Lisetha's face definitely colored under the powder. "I won't need to reach," she said, and there was a flutter, nerves, or something else? "That's for my husband to unfasten." She looked over her shoulder at Aleishia and while it was hard to say given the natural state of her eyes, but there might have been a twinkle there. "We aren't a completely dull and icy people, after all."

Unbidden, an image of Serhal, returned from their trip two nights earlier and radiating eagerness to see her alone, rose to mind. "I would never say you were."

There was a tap at the door, and Aleishia pulled her veil back into place. Seln, dressed in sharp, bright livery, entered at his Lady's bidding. "Lady Als'ele'kadre is here with her third-daughter," he said, with warmer tones than Aleishia could recall ever hearing him use before.

"Show them in, Seln," Lisetha said, and Aleishia was slightly surprised at how her apprentice seemed to perk up at the news.

The old retainer bowed, started to step out, and paused. "If it's not outside my place to say, my Lady, you look a beautiful picture. Your father would be so proud to see you."

Lisetha bowed her head. "You knew him longer than I did, Seln. If you say so, it must be true. Thank you." He bowed again and stepped out, and a moment later Seleka and Kelah entered, both dressed in formal robes and with a few pieces of jewelry that looked a bit overstated for the daytime.

"Daughter, your invitation was rather vague," Seleka said, "what–" and then she stopped and stared. Kelah was old enough she should have been able to control her own astonished expression, but she didn't, her jaw actually dropping. Seleka blinked, stared a moment longer. "Lisetha, what is this?"

Lisetha, to Aleishia's mild astonishment, lowered her gaze. "I asked you here to stand witness at my wedding, Mother. And to help me prepare, of course. I apologize for not being clearer, but there are some who might be . . . obstructionist if they knew." She went back to the dressing table and picked up the hair brush. "It is traditional, is it not, for the mother to braid her daughter's hair for her wedding?" Suddenly Aleishia understood her earlier reticence. She'd been half-convinced her mother wouldn't come, would deny her the tradition.

Seleka still looked mildly stunned. "Of course it is," she said, "but . . . you cannot have negotiated a contract so quickly. And such a formal wedding–"

"We are not marrying by contract," Lisetha said quietly. "We marry in hand. Today."

Now Kelah made a sound that was decidedly like a squeak. "Marriage _in hand?_ Is that even allowed?"

"Allowed, and perfectly legal, little sister," Lisetha said, smiling with only a trace of uncertainty. "It requires a more formal ceremony, but a brief one, and it is traditional and necessary for members of both families to attend. And in hand or not, it would be bad luck for a servant or the bride herself to braid her hair. Please, Mother?"

For a moment, Aleishia wondered if Seleka would refuse, at least until she'd demanded more explanation, or offered a protest. Then she saw the twitch of a muscle in the older woman's cheek, and what might have been an extra-hard press of the lips, not anger, but an attempt to control some emotion threatening to slip her control. "Of course, daughter. Sit–carefully, don't wrinkle anything!" There might have been a tremor as she took the brush and began stroking it through Lisetha's cascade of cobalt hair.

Kelah, meanwhile, settled with a controlled lack of grace in a chair. "Marriage in hand," she repeated. "It's like something out of a children's story! Have you been planning this all along? Did he ask you?"

"Kelah, the details of their agreement are not your business," Seleka chided. "Though . . . ." She picked up a band of ribbon, sewn heavily with pearls in pale and blue and white, and centered it like a headpiece. " _Was_ it his idea?"

"We agreed to it," Lisetha said calmly. "That is why it is today, too. We saw no point in waiting any longer." She watched in the mirror as her mother began to plait her hair in a long, simple braid. The tails of the ribbon would be wound around it at the top, but the length would hang down like a child's braid. Aleishia, watching, was grateful for the veil hiding her slight disapproval. Long braids were far too easy to grab. Not, of course, that she anticipated anyone having to fight, but it was best to keep these things in mind.

"A romantic match!" Kelah sounded torn between being genuinely carried away at the idea of seeing a mythic tale play out, and incredulity at the whole notion. "No one will believe it! Every officer _I_ know thinks he's barely a real person. They say he must be a tactical computer disguised as a man. And now you've bewitched him?"

"My husband–" and she seemed to catch herself, Aleishia noted, "–husband-to-be is very much a man," Lisetha said, and beneath the powder her cheeks flushed a bit. "They are merely envious of his talent."

Aleishia couldn't resist the urge to give her a mental poke. _Very much, apprentice? Should they be envious of more than his tactical genius?_ For once, Lisetha was too flustered to answer.

Seleka, meanwhile, paused, the delicate veil hanging in her hands. "There aren't any other reasons you've decided matters must be settled so quickly and permanently?" Lisetha looked at her mother in the mirror, her expression deliberately puzzled. "I only mean, I'm aware your guards and . . . chaperones," and Aleishia quietly nodded even as she deflected Seleka's attention with a quiet mental pressure, "are always close at hand, but I do know that young people, especially young military men and young women who have been relatively sheltered much of their lives, can be quite creative at times when they wish to be alone, and of course accidents do happen–"

" _Mother!_ " Lisetha turned on the chair, partially to glare at her mother and partially to make sure Kelah saw the look on her face, too, before she genuinely lost control of herself and rolled with laughter. "Mitth'raw'nuruodo is an honorable officer of the Defense Force and low-born or not he has an unimpeachable sense of decorum. And I certainly hope I've never given the impression of being careless with my–affections. Why in all the worlds does everyone assume we've done nothing but look for excuses to . . . to . . . ."

"Act like young people since time immemorial?" Seleka gently but firmly took her elder daughter by the shoulders and turned her back to face the mirror and carefully pinned the veil into place so it trailed down Lisetha's back, shrouding the long braid of hair with translucent, shimmering white. "As you _are_ intent on marrying there's no shame in it. Gentleman or not, when a couple finds each other's company agreeable and contracts seem inevitable, one thing _will_ lead to another. When your father and I were in the later stages of our introductions, I remember–"

This time it was a chorus of _"Mother!"_ as apparently there were some things the sisters agreed on. Seleka's smile looked rater self-satisfied to Aleishia, though.

"If you've been so innocent, _is_ there anything you wished to ask about, daughter?" she asked as she made tiny, probably-unnecessary adjustments to Lisetha's hair before picking up a necklace made from several long strands of the glossy milkstones, white streaked almost imperceptibly with pale blue, and fastened it around her daughter's neck.

Lisetha was probably grateful for the cosmetics now, Aleishia thought, having to bite down on a laugh of her own. It _did_ minimize any high color in her face. "I was quite well-educated on my duty to my family and in where those duty-mandated offspring come from, Mother," she said, sounding as if she were gritting her teeth.

"There is more to it than simple reproductive biology, daughter," Seleka said.

"Then I will let my husband teach me that part," Lisetha retorted.

"Just remember that while of course you should be concerned with your husband's wishes in that regard," Seleka countered, "he has a duty to see to _your_ wishes, too. There," and she stepped back, studying her handiwork. "What do you think?"

Lisetha rose, smoothing her skirts down and turning her head slowly from side, watching how the merssah silk shimmered in the light. "I think it will do very well."

"Well, _I_ think you look so old-fashioned you might as well be an ancestor portrait," Kelah said, coming to stand beside them. "I think I'd rather stick to modern dress and contracts."

"I think you should worry about your studies more and marriages less," Lisetha said. "Though if you do come across a young man as remarkable as Thrawn, by all means, tell me so I can open negotiations for you."

There was another soft rap from the door, and once again Seln appeared. "First Councilor Chri'fen'lasel has arrived, my lady," he said, and once again he couldn't contain an almost-paternal smile. "And High Councilor of the Eighth Mitth'aen'ilian and her first-son and his wife."

"Excellent. Mother, Kelah, would you go down and greet our guests? I'll join you in just a moment." _Aleishia, wait a moment?_

_Of course._ She waited until the sound and the sense of the other three was well down the hall before undoing her veil. "Are you ready, apprentice?"

Lisetha was carefully arranging the items on her dressing table, very deliberately not looking towards her bedchamber beyond where a small oil lamp, its reservoir full, already was placed on the night table. "I suppose as I've already chosen this path, I shouldn't be the slightest bit nervous, should I?"

Aleishia moved to her side, putting away notions of master and apprentice or servant and mistress for now, and took her hands. "The Force is with you, Lisetha. But if you wish to be a little nervous, even among your people I'm sure that's acceptable for a bride."

For once, there was nothing shuttered or contained about Lisetha's smile. "Then I suppose it's time to go." Aleishia replaced her veil, and took up her place just behind her apprentice as they went down to await the groom.

Thrass adjusted his sidearm in its holster one final time, feeling painfully awkward at going armed to visit the home of a High Councilor. But Thawn had been as immovable on this point as every other. They would not travel to Lisetha's house with Thaenil or their adoptive parents (temporary in Thrass's case, someday to be permanent in Thrawn's) but rather be the last to depart, they were to wear their full formal uniforms and include the decorations that Thrawn himself normally left off whenever protocol allowed, and Thrass was to stand beside him armed, not merely the metaphoric man-at-arms of a contract signing but as if he genuinely thought they might be challenged and have to carry the bride off at charric-point.

He supposed if the bride's brother turned up to object to matters, it might not be over-preparation at that. And it might be possible they would need less to abduct the bride than prevent her from committing open murder if Rael'or'kadre tried to block the marriage.

For a man literally on the doorstep of an enormous change to his life, Thrawn looked as unperturbed as if he were en route to his daily briefing aboard ship. He of course was not armed, and Thrass knew he had already sent a case of clothing ahead. The newly married couple would be excused from all duties barring planetary emergencies and allowed to refuse callers for the next four days, a time traditionally given both to allow them to adjust to their new status and to assure the marriage contract was fulfilled in every parameter. Privately, Thrass wondered if even the promise of such a beautiful wife's undivided attention would keep his brother from finding so much enforced inactivity maddening. It would certainly be an interesting experiment.

Thrawn paused at the door and looked at his brother. "Are you prepared?"

"Aren't I supposed to ask you that?" Thrass gave his younger brother a critical once-over. Not only was every thread of his uniform in perfect order, complete with the truly intimidating array of citation and award ribbons and pips, Thrawn looked as relaxed as if he were about to inspect a new company of cadets. "You look absurdly composed. Can't you at least admit you're nervous?"

"Why would I be nervous?" Thrawn continued his lifelong irritating habit of responding to questions with questions. "Lisetha has assured me everything will be prepared. It is not a complex ceremony, and it's unlikely any of her relatives will object with literal violence."

"Ceremony?" Thrass frowned. "Most marriage contracts aren't that ornate."

"Be patient and watch, brother." Thrawn touched the door pad, and after a moment an elderly servant in formal Second livery answered. His eyes narrowed as he looked at them. Thrawn inclined his head politely, and said:

"I am Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo, trial-son of the Eighth High Family. I come at the bidding of Lady Reli'set'harana, daughter of this House, to take her in hand as my wife."

The servant eyed him suspiciously, and Thrass resisted the urge to do the same. That was _not_ how one normally requested entrance to a house even for a marriage celebration, and the phrasing was decidedly . . . odd. Archaic, even. Thrawn remained perfectly impassive, waiting.

Finally, though, the servant stepped back. "Enter, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, if the Aristocra so wishes." The dialect sounded almost comical in the low accent, and as they stepped into the entrance hall, scented with incense from a cone of it burning before one of the funerary stele in their niches, the old man stopped in front of Thrawn, whose only indication of surprise was a quirk of an eyebrow. "You aren't good enough for her, boy," the old servant said, once again in the low vernacular, "no one's good enough for my lady. But you seem to please her, so see as you make her happy, hear, or if nought else, you'll answer to me."

Thrass didn't even know how to process both the deviation from a clear protocol, even if he at least was still uncertain what the procedure was, let alone the blatant insult. To his astonishment, though, Thrawn only nodded. "Rest assured, Seln, I'm well aware of all that," he said quietly. "And your lady's happiness is more important to me than my own. Now, if we might continue?"

Seln gave him another narrow-eyed look, but Thrass thought there might be the slightest hint of approval there. "This way, Commander."

They were lead to the doors of what Thrass suspected was the family solar or great room. The old man stepped aside as they reached the doors, but there was another in similar colors standing by. He recognized Ser'halis, the one-eyed aide and bodyguard she'd brought on their fact-finding trip, but now besides the formal uniform, he held an old-fashioned, certainly antique, fighting pike. And he raised it, barring Thrawn's path to the door.

"By whose leave do you come to this noble house?" He also sounded as if he were struggling with the archaic words, but less as if they were difficult to pronounce and more as if he were trying to keep a straight face. Thrass could hardly blame him.

"By the Aristocra's leave and by her will." Thrawn, of course, sounded as if he spoke such dialogue every day. He moved to step forward, but Ser'halis twisted the pike, literally barring his way.

"What do you come for, that I should not turn you away?" The one lighted eye narrowed, and rather like the old servant, Seln, Thrass suspected the protectiveness wasn't entirely feigned.

Thrawn, for the first time, seemed less than serene, but never less than controlled. He reached out and grabbed the pike between Ser'halis's hands, twisting it up. Thrass smothered a grin at the momentary start of surprise from the guard. Thrawn might not have the bulk of a brawler, but he was far stronger than he seemed. "I come for the hand of Lady Reli'set'harana. If I must fight for it, I will. I will not be turned away."

Ser'halis held a moment, and then he stepped back, spinning the pike to an at-rest position. "Enter, then, if the Aristocra so wills." He moved away as the door slid aside, but he, and the old hall servant, followed them in.

The room was spacious and light, decorated with the expected ancestor portraits and screens. As befit the Second Family, most of the screens were battles, save one on a dais at the far end of the room, which was painted with the First Nine, among whom would be the first High Councilor of the Second Family, Lisetha's most prestigious ancestor. Thrawn's lip might have quirked, but whether it appealed to his artistic sense or not, it _was_ all the sort of thing a family would display for a wedding. Sitting beside it was First Councilor Chri'fen'lasel, wearing formal robes in his family's own colors, but in a place that would have been taken by Lisetha's father, Councilor of the Second, had he been alive. To their right was a row of cushioned low seats, and he wasn't surprised to see their adoptive parents and Thaenil there, or Als'ele'kadre and a young woman-presumably the third-daughter Lisetha had mentioned and he couldn't help taking an extra glance. Pretty, yes, but not a patch on her older sister, and there was something just a shade too calculating in how she looked at him from under lowered lashes, and then demurely away. He tried not to shiver obviously.

To their left, a low table had been covered with delicacies only the extremely wealthy could possibly afford–meats and fish that must have been imported from the producer worlds, fine breads from grains that couldn't possibly grow on Csilla, tree fruits in stunning variety, sweet cakes decorated with delicate spun sugar artistic enough even Thrawn had to be pleased, salted and candied nuts, and decanters of wines that almost certainly were older than most of the guests present and worth more than some were paid in a year.

Lady Als'ele'kadre rose and approached. "Mitth'raw'nuruodo," she said, smiling. "You are welcome in this house. Will you take refreshment?" She lifted a crystal glass filled with one of the rich red wines, and held it out to him. "Sweet cakes and wine?"

Thrawn raised a warding hand and didn't even glance at the table. "Thank you, my lady, but I did not come for food or drink. I have come to take the Lady Reli'set'harana in hand as my wife and I seek nothing from your House before that." Deliberately, he turned away and looked to the dais.

Something in the repeated responses, the ritualistic confrontations, began to trigger a memory so obscure it was certainly something he'd learned as purely academic. The ritual challenges–first force, then diversion, and now he suspected a third was coming, bribery most likely. Thrawn's choice of phrase, or rather, his assigned lines, the repeated declaration that he had come for the lady's hand . . . marriage in hand. Thrass could have kicked himself for not realizing, though a quick glance at the rather stunned expressions on the guests confirmed he was not alone. Except for Chri'fen'lasel, all looked as if they were, like Thrass himself, only slowly catching up to what they were being called to witness. But it was all there, just as in the ancient stories–first the guards of the house challenged the suitor with arms, then the women offered sweet confections and rich, intoxicating drink, and at the last the head of the Family offered all their treasures if the young soldier would only quit his claim. All refused, and the couple instead were bound for their lives. No wonder Als'ele'kadre's voice was just faintly brittle, and Thaenil's face pale and stunned.

He couldn't blame them. His first instinct was to drag his brother aside, protocol be damned, and demand to know if Thrawn had truly, absolutely thought through what he was doing. He'd noted with amusement the increasing affection, well beyond the norm of any arranged match where the participants had been strangers mere months ago, and he strongly suspected he'd been absolutely right about what the problem with the ship's hyperdrive had interrupted. But it was a far cry from a couple happy with their families' arrangements becoming fond of each other to skipping over the contractual details, mutually-agreed-upon benefits, and careful out clauses to a promise that would bind them for the entirety of their lives. It was the sort of mad thing young, desperate lovers did, not someone with a military career that was already at best, unconventional.

Then he looked at Thrawn again. His brother was studying the screen hiding part of the dais, still pointedly ignoring the food and wine being offered, and there was just the faintest smile playing at his lips. Of course he had thought this through. Of course Lady Lisetha would only agree if she saw something greater here than mutual affection. What that plan was, Thrass couldn't begin to guess. But with Thrawn, it was undoubtedly something complex and part of a long game.

He looked again at the ancestor portraits. Possibly a very long game indeed.

Now Thrawn approached the dais, and as he did, the First Councilor rose from his seat. He held a small wrapped bundle in his hand and he stepped between Thrawn and the painted screen. "Greetings, Mitth'raw'nuruodo," Rifenlas said. "I am asked to speak for the Aristocra of the Second. What is it you ask of this Family?"

"I have come to take the hand of its first-daughter and Aristocra, Lady Reli'set'harana, and to have her as my wife." Now for the first time he seemed to glance at the screen inadvertently, not a disciplined inspection, and Thrass knew who must be sitting, patiently waiting, behind it.

Rifenlas didn't move. "What you claim is a prize beyond price," he recited, unwrapping the small bundle as he did. The final test, the bribe, the chance for the suitor to show self-interest and unworthiness. "But you have come far and shown this family honor. Take this, in token of your efforts, that you will not go away empty-handed."

Thrawn looked at the object being offered, and Thrass saw his brother catch his breath in spite of himself. It was a sculpture, tiny but painfully intricate, carved out of midnight-blue csillite, shot through with tiny filaments of glittering silver. The stone was found only in deep deposits and only on their world, and it was difficult to work with. This was a carving of a stylized animal, a tiny creature that lived in the snow pack, but it was exquisite work, obviously very old and made by a master. It was undoubtedly centuries old, a priceless treasure by some ancient master craftsman. And exactly the sort of thing that Thrawn would, all other things being equal, give almost anything to possess.

And then any doubts he had about Thrawn's sincerity or sanity evaporated as his brother looked disdainfully away from the art, meeting Rifenlas's gaze with a directness that even in the circumstances might have been too bold. "There is only one thing I ask from this House," he said, quietly, but with a conviction so hard lasers couldn't have burned through it, "and I would rather go empty-handed than leave here without it."

The First Councilor didn't move for a moment, and then he quietly stepped aside. The screen folded back, moved by that veiled servant, revealing Lady Lisetha, calmly kneeling with her hands folded on her lap. She was made up in the traditional way, giving her a strange, almost luminous beauty, an archetype of their people's ideal, not a real person. She looked up, the movement making the lustrous pearls and gossamer veil shimmer in the light, and smiled as Thrawn moved before her and knelt, his own posture a mirror of hers.

For a moment, they regarded each other, with the uncanny air of people who had forgotten there was anyone else in the room. Finally she said, softly, "If my husband is prepared to take me, I am prepared to go." Thrawn silently held out his hand, palm up, and she rested hers palm down upon it. For a minute, they merely smiled at each other, real expressions almost of suppressed mirth, as if at some private joke. Then they rose, standing momentarily side by side on the dais, and took a single step together.

There was a moment when a snow flea walking across the crust of the ice would have sounded loud as a turbolaser blast, and then Rifenlas said, "As you have gone together, hand in hand, then may you now prosper together, with the blessings of both your houses."

Lisetha and Thrawn both looked to him a moment, and she smiled and nodded, and that was apparently the signal as Lady Seleka was on her feet, moving to embrace her daughter, and Thaenil rose as well, moving to join them. Before anyone else could corner him, Thrass touched his brother's arm and drew his attention aside.

"You could have warned me," he said.

"And listened to another lecture on why we weren't thinking this through?" Thrawn quirked an eyebrow. "You did what was required. I knew I could rely on you."

"You didn't give me much choice," Thrass said, though he found he was having to fight the urge to laugh. "Of all people, _my_ little brother a mad romantic. I suppose all that art should have been a clue."

Thrawn's smile was rather thin-lipped, but for once, Thrass didn't think he was genuinely irritated. "What makes you think that, like the art, this isn't about strategy?"

"Oh, I'm sure you both have your motives," Thrass said. "But not entirely higher ones. Otherwise you wouldn't, even now, be watching your bride out of the corner of your eye even while you're talking to me. And she wouldn't be watching you in return." And he definitely had to choke on a laugh as Thrawn, clearly without thinking, immediately turned to see if he was telling the truth.

He was; Lisetha might have been in the midst of her family and her fellow Councilors, but her gaze was fixed on Thrawn and when she saw him looking back her smile was, for an instant not calculated or controlled at all. Then she was slipping through the group pressed around her, her hands outstretched. Thrawn caught them both up, and Thrass had the unusual experience of feeling, truly, like an older brother relieved for his strange younger sibling, because for the first time since the Eighth Family had formally announced they wished to name him their trial-son, Thrawn looked genuinely, unrestrainedly happy. And beneath the cosmetics and the traditional robes, Lisetha looked younger and happier than was proper for, really, anyone, let alone a High Councilor.

"Husband, you're forgetting, we have one more little ceremony." Even her voice was warm, wavering just a bit, as if she were delighted with just the words. "Our guests can't eat until we finish it." She looked at Thrass. "Forgive me. Thank you for coming, brother-if I may call you that?"

"I'd be honored if you would," Thrass said sincerely. "I know you said you were going to marry in two days. You didn't mention you meant . . . this."

"Forgive us for that," Lisetha said. "It seemed better to keep matters as quiet as possible. There are some even here who might object, but–"

"As we've presented them with the completed act, there's little they can do now," Thrawn interrupted. He slipped Lisetha's arm through is. "And you're correct, wife, I believe we are delaying the more festive part of the occasion."

"Already you've improved his manners, sister," Thrass said, falling in on Thrawn's other side. Today, the lower rank and younger sibling could have precedence. "Normally it's a chore to make him admit others even need to eat at all."

"I'll have to remind him to sometimes temper discipline with mercy, then, and to recall the rest of us are mere mortals," Lisetha said as they returned to the table. At the far end nearest the dais, past the rich, indulgent delicacies, there was a plain earthenware plate and a rough ceramic cup with no stem or handles. The plate held a plain, flat disc-shaped loaf of bread, made from meal so coarse he could see flecks of it. The cup was filled with what appeared to be water, and which, if he was remembering the stories correctly, _was_ water, melted from the glaciers. The loaf was made in the manner of the most primitive travel food, from nutritious but relatively tasteless grains that were one of the first plants their ancestors had managed to grow in the heated caverns.

Lisetha picked up the small loaf in both hands and broke it in half, then tore two smaller pieces from one of the halves and offered one to Thrawn. He took it gravely and they both ate, admirably not showing any indication if it was as dry and tasteless as it appeared. Then Thrawn picked up the cup and drank from it before passing it to Lisetha. Thrass wasn't sure, but he didn't think it was a requirement of the ceremony that the bride turn the cup so her lips touched the same spot as the groom's, but Lisetha did. And Thrawn smiled, undoubtedly having noticed too.

The food and drink were as delicious as they were extravagant, and Thrass had to wonder that his new sister had managed to arrange everything with such short notice. Not that the newlyweds seemed to be partaking much themselves. They were seated at the head of the table, sharing a plate, though given the amount of food on it didn't seem to diminish neither seemed much more interested in eating than they were in the polite conversations with their guests. Thrass tried to recall the last time he'd see Thrawn look as relaxed, even distracted, as he did now. Nothing was coming immediately to mind. He certainly never remembered seeing his brother look at a woman as if reassuring himself she was there, or as if he were marveling at an especially-entrancing or ingeniously-wrought artwork he couldn't quite believe belonged to him.

Via accident or design on someone's part, Thrass found himself seated beside and conversing with Telk'ela'harana, who was not in fact as completely frivolous as he'd feared. Between her halfway-intelligent, if rather inane, conversation, and the food and fine surroundings, Thrass found himself actually relaxing a bit.

Then the doors to the solar opened, and Asp'ier'ikadre entered.

Thrass turned, even as conversations came to an abrupt stop, and he saw that Thrawn and Lisetha had both gone very still. Pierik stood just within the door, dressed in his Council-Aide's formal robes, which for once seemed rather subdued compared to the formal finery and dress uniforms on display. His expression was perfectly composed, polite, and he was looking directly at his niece.

Lisetha rose, Thrawn a half-second behind her. Rifenlas looked as if he wanted to as well, but thought better of it. In a Council meeting, he would have been the most senior person present, but this was Lisetha's House, and her relative come to call. Thrass could see Thrawn fighting the urge to step forward, but he remained at her shoulder. Marriage did not erase rank and as he was senior aboard a ship or defense platform, Lisetha was senior here.

She stopped before her uncle, an arm's length away. He made a polite bow from the neck, suitable as Aide to Councilor, and after half a heartbeat she returned the salutation. "Uncle," she said. "This is a surprise. I had no response to my invitation to Grandfather."

"He is, I'm afraid, feeling too unwell to leave home at present," Pierik said. "I am sure if his health permitted, though, he would not have failed to attend such an important event." His expression said that was almost certainly a polite fiction.

"It reflects well on you as a son that you think so," Lisetha said. "Uncle, I believe you have met my husband, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, trial-son of the Eighth Family." Which, as he'd been on the fact-finding mission, he of course had, but Lisetha had clearly decided to opt for extreme politeness.

"Of course," and the nod was only slightly more restrained. "My congratulations, Commander. It was a great pleasure to travel aboard your ship on our recent mission for the Council. I am happy for my niece that she has chosen such an accomplished young officer as her husband." And he held out a hand.

Thrawn hesitated such a slight fraction of an instant, Thrass doubted anyone else noticed. "Thank you, Council-Aide. I am greatly honored by your niece's choice," he said, and for once Thrass didn't think there was any false modesty in is tone.

"I'm afraid you missed the ceremony," Lisetha said. "Please, though, you'll join us for refreshments?"

"It would be my pleasure." Seleka was already rising to greet her brother, and to Thrass's minor astonishment _his_ brother paused and spoke with both of them while Lisetha returned to her seat and a conversation with Rifenlas. Though as she did, her gaze kept drifting back to her mother, uncle, and husband, and this time Thrass didn't think she was simply anxious for her new husband's company. His suspicions were confirmed when Thrawn did return to his seat, and for a moment, while anyone would expect newlyweds to sit with their heads bent close, speaking in quiet murmurs, he didn't have the impression they were simply murmuring meaningless affection to each other.

Lisetha touched the spark lighter's tip to the wick of the oil lamp and watched as the tiny flame flickered to life. Supposedly, the bride was, at this point, to ask the gods and ancestors to bless this union and presumably hasten the conception of an heir. It felt silly to pray for something she knew was a matter of simple biology, but she did take a moment to steady herself in the Force before returning to the dressing chamber, where Thrawn was waiting.

"I thought," he said, turning the little csillite sculpture over in his hands, "that I was only supposed to receive the treasure if I were unworthy and willing to give up my claim to the bride."

"What, dangle a sculpture like that in front of you and snatch it away?" Lisetha sat down before the mirror again, and carefully wiped away the last traces of her cosmetic mask. It was a relief to look at her reflection and see herself. "I wouldn't be so cruel." She unfastened the necklace and set it aside, wondering absently just how many milkstones there really were in it. "I was surprised Uncle Pierik came. Grandfather will probably not be pleased."

"I expect not." Thrawn removed his belt and uniform tunic, carefully folding it over a chair back before sitting and removing his boots. "But I do not think it was a deceptive act. He may simply be an adept actor, but I believe he was sincere. Just as Thrass does not think he had any unusual reaction to our absences on the ship. It may be he is not involved in whatever the Sixth Family is planning and which your grandfather seems to support."

"Which means I may have been mistaken in which door I heard closing during our unscheduled stop," she said, unfastening the veil and the pearl ribbons. "If something came aboard, it may only have been Orkeli who was involved."

"It still seems impossible that anyone could have boarded the ship, no matter how distracted we were with the hyperdrive." She could see Thrawn watching her in the mirror, his expression as unreadable as it usually was.

"Improbable, perhaps, but not impossible." She smoothed out the veil. Later, she'd have to store it carefully away. The silk would be used for a layer of her first-child's nameday gown. "Serhal and Aleishia should be on their way now to the coordinates where we had the malfunction. If there's any trail to follow, they'll find it."

"And be away from home and any urge to keep an eye on us?"

She rose, pressing her hands together to stop them trembling. "Perhaps." She plucked at the silk cord of her sash. "Can you help me undo all this?"

There was a long pause, and she closed her eyes. Utterly ridiculous; any barriers between them should have been gone. They had spoken the words, been married in their minds and hearts before this afternoon, but somehow, there was a strange weight to it now. This was different.

She could feel him standing close behind her, and his fingers worked at the taut silk cord until the sash came free. He folded it and set it aside while she slipped out of the heavy embroidered overtunic. That left the long column of buttons, and she pulled her braid forward, leaving them clear for him to see. There was a gentle tug at her collar and down her back as he slowly, carefully, worked each of the tiny buttons free. Unbuttoned, the tunic was free to slide down to a pool at her feet, leaving only the thin undershift, wrapped and tied at her side. She reached for the fastening, and Thrawn's hand closed over hers.

"This first," he murmured, pulling her hair back over her shoulder and untying the thin ribbon holding the plait at its end. Gently and painfully slowly, he combed out the braid with his fingers, stroking it until it was all unbound and hanging down her back so that when he did untie the shift, there was still her hair hanging like a veil between them.

"There," he sighed, sliding his fingertips slowly down the bare skin of her arms. "Now you aren't completely undressed."

"I notice you aren't, either," she said, thought it was hard to concentrate on anything besides how his hands were gently exploring her body, a much more methodical examination than before. He had been paying attention then, too, as he clearly remembered each particular place where a particular touch made her shudder and catch her breath.

"I have far less of interest to reveal," he said, brushing aside her hair and kissing her throat, just above the chain of the medallion still resting against her skin. "Do you never take this off?"

"Never," she murmured, "not if I can possibly avoid it. I would feel completely naked without it."

He nodded, and then very gently undid the clasp. "Still, we wouldn't wish to break the chain, would we?" He kissed the nape of her neck as he slid the chain away and carefully set it on the dressing table.

"Now it's really not fair you're still dressed." She tried to turn, but he caught her by the shoulders, kept her still, and then he lifted her in his arms.

"Fair has nothing to do with it," he said, carrying her through to the bedchamber. "We have four days, and I intend to use them. And I am going to start," and he laid her down on the waiting bed, "by taking my time and admiring the view."

She should have felt supremely vulnerable, lying before him with only her hair as a cover, but instead, she loved how he seemed to be hesitant, waiting, devouring her with his eyes, but only hesitantly unbuttoning his shirt and keeping just out of reach, if she'd even wanted to try to force the issue.

Then again, did she need to take matters into her own hands quite so literally?

Propping herself up on her elbows, Lisetha narrowed her eyes. "I would prefer the view from this direction be more revealing, husband. Don't tell me you're shy now!"

He wasn't, but clearly the notion of being on display had far less appeal than being the viewer even as he followed her implied order. Why, Lisetha couldn't begin to guess, as she admired his strong, lean frame, the body of a soldier complete with a few fine scars she made a mental note to ask him about some time.

Not now, though.

"There, was that so terrible?" She couldn't help staring hungrily, taking the time they hadn't allowed themselves before to drink in the intoxicating sight of Thrawn's body even as he gazed at her, seeing everything, planning, that mind constantly working, making even this a battle plan, a strategy to achieve his victory.

Or she could simply surrender.

Holding out her hand, she murmured, "Now, come to me. Take what's yours." The feel of his fingers lacing with hers, for a moment their only contact, was exquisite, and then he was on her, in her, and there was nothing left for her to do but take what was hers as well.


	12. The New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A bit shorter, but right now Resurrection is taking up more time. So we’ll be going back to bigger time-skips here after the first section, which was the original plan anyway. But here’s a little retroactive angst now we know how Aleishia and Serhal end, and another happy reminder of how disgustingly adorable Thrawn and Lisetha are. (Why that particular punch to the gut right now? Well, more Resurrection coming soon... ;) )

 

Aleishia had almost forgotten the luxury of wearing practical, human-style clothing and having her face uncovered, carrying on a conversation with someone in the process. It was true she had times when she and Lisetha could converse, and of course lying in Serhal’s bed there was little chance of interruption (little chance of conversation, either) but there was always the risk, the knowledge that one interruption by the wrong person, one moment of being too slow to hide behind the camsilk . . . .

This wasn’t a pleasure trip, she reminded herself, comfortable as the shuttle was. It was meant for Family to use for longer trips, so while it was small, it was easier than taking the fighter-type flyers Lisetha normally favored. The journey to the coordinates where the alleged malfunction ad occurred wasn’t overly long, but it was time enough to change and relax and enjoy even recycled air on her face.

And fighting with Serhal over who got the pilot’s seat, but she’d surrendered in reasonably short order.

“Coming out of hyperspace in two standard minutes,” Serhal said.

She slipped into the co-pilot’s seat, noting the readings as she did. “Anything unusual so far?”

“The hyperdrive’s functioning normally.” He pointed to the technical readout, and she marveled for a moment at how much easier it was becoming to read the curving Cheunh script instead of Basic. “No indication of any abnormal readings.”

“So far, so good then.” She closed her eyes, trying to reach out to their destination with the Force. It was hard to focus on anything, though, without knowing what was there. The Force might be everywhere, including interstellar space, but without life to reflect it, generate it . . . .

She felt something much closer and opened her eyes. Serhal was watching her, the slightest smile curving his lips, and his sense in the Force radiated humor. “You look like you’re taking a nap when you do that.”

“With you sharing my quarters, I need to catch all the sleep I can, since resting through the night is no longer an option.” She smiled back. “I don’t sense anything, but still, best to be prepared.”

“No argument here.” He pulled back on the throttle and the shuttle’s sublight engines kicked in. The first thing Aleishia was aware of was the emptiness of deep space. The Force might be everywhere, but even it couldn’t make the blackness between the stars seem less a void. There were no other life forms she could sense at the moment, which was only somewhat reassuring.

Especially with the way Serhal was looking at the readouts. “No ships, and we’re in deep space, no planets or stations in this quadrant. But . . . .” He frowned, adjusting the sensors. “I’m picking up a trace reading.”

“Ion trail from a ship?” Aleishia leaned closer, looking over his shoulder.

“Doesn’t appear to be.” His frown deepened. “It’s very faint, but it appears to be a transmitter. The computer doesn’t recognize the signal.”

“Put it through,” she said, closing her eyes to listen, and to let her other senses give way to the Force. There was still no sense of another presence nearby, only the normal ‘background’ energy of the Force’s omnipresence, and still . . . it wasn’t a consciousness, but something had been here and left a ripple, like a rock in a pond. A dark, glossy, oil-like pond . . . .

The tone that pinged a discordant rhythm through the cockpit speakers did not, as Serhal had said, register as anything used by the Chiss. The tone also didn’t sound like anything she recalled hearing in the Republic. The Order hadn’t made excessive use of probe droids or remote signals that she was aware. It could have changed, of course, and never having become a knight, she’d had little enough to do with the finer points of the Republic’s forces. For what they were worth; since coming to the Ascendancy she’d realized how bizarrely under-defended the Republic truly was. The systems that were under the ‘protection’ of the Ascendancy were by and large nothing compared to the systems of the Republic, and yet assault on one or revolution by another would bring down swift response from a miliary that might nominally be “defensive”, but which could have easily crushed whatever resistence its ‘protectorates’ could offer. Someday, she reminded herself yet again, she would have to persuade Lisetha to probe further into the records a High Councilor could access, to see what sort of enemies had prompted the Chiss’ strange combination of extreme isolationism and extreme militarism.

Perhaps this was a remnant of those ancient enemies. Or perhaps it was something more current.

“I don’t recognize the signal,” she said, “and I don’t sense any life around it. I think it’s clearly a beacon, but not one from any species I’m familiar with.” That left a fairly large realm of possibilities given this was the Unknown Regions, but at this point, any narrowing down of options was something.

“The signal doesn’t seem to be an alarm,” Serhal said, then he frowned, looking at another readout. “But it has a very odd resonance. Look at the shields.”

She looked. And frowned. The power levels were not a constant, as they should be, nor were they dropped as if they’d taken a hit. Instead, the strength indicator dropped, then stabilized, then fluctuated again around another section of the ship. “Is it affecting the engines?”

“Not the sublight drive,” Serhal said. “I’m going to try and get a better sensor scan. If we can narrow down the source, we might even be able to bring it aboard for examination.”

Aleishia felt a cold finger trace down her spine. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Serhal turned in his seat so he could see her better with his good eye. “We came out here to acquire further information,” he said, not accusatory but certainly puzzled. “If whatever is producing this signal is what caused the transport’s malfunction it could provide exactly what we’re looking for.”

“I know,” and the frustrating part was he was absolutely, logically, correct, “I just have a bad feeling–“

Before she could finish the thought, the proximity alarm shrilled a warning. On the sensors, a blip decelerated out of hyperspace, but the trace was a generic–whatever the small craft was, the shuttle’s systems could estimate the size and velocity but had no other readings. Aleishia at least didn’t need any–the Force was screaming a warning even as the other ship came within visual range–a dark, needle-nosed craft with clawlike wing struts to either side. Whether there was a cockpit or sensors or other distinctive markings she couldn’t tell, as the skin of the craft was a rippling black with flickers of dark-on-dark colors that gave it an oily, slick appearance.

Whether it had weapons, Aleishia did not want to wait to find out as it was homing on them and on the source of the beacon. “Serhal, get us out of here!”

He hesitated, his fingers over the navicomputer. “That ship–“

“We have to go, now!” Aleishia reached out, searching for the too-familiar sense of alive-but-not, the black, sinking feeling of the dark ships. If she could confuse them for a moment–

Her mind touched something strange.

Not the half-alive, the mindless. This looked back, thinking, perceiving. Puzzled, yet suddenly fixed on her own probe in the Force and suddenly it was grabbing her, a choking, endless falling seizing her thoughts. You, she heard, or thought she did, and then there was a scream and everything was dark.

When her eyes opened, she was on one of the bunks in the shuttle’s cabin, a biomonitor patch on her arm. Serhal was sitting beside her, cradling her hand in his. When he realized she was looking at him, his shoulders sagged with a flood of relief. “I was afraid you would not wake,” he said.

“How long was I unconscious?” That was the word. She hadn’t been asleep, she knew that.

The answer shocked her. “Over an hour. You cried out and collapsed, and I put us into an emergency jump. We’ll have to come out of hyperspace soon and recompute a course for home, but that ship–you were right, it was on an attack vector. How did you know?”

Aleishia hesitated. “A feeling. Like something reaching for me.” That was true enough as far as it went. “It felt as if somehow...it knew me.” She closed her eyes against a new surge of dizziness. Like that creature on the moon of Khnum. Like the thing that killed Mihall.

Serhal’s hand tightened around hers. “I should have listened to your bad feeling. As soon as I started the jump, it changed course and went after the beacon. I don’t know if the fighter destroyed it–“

“That’s probably what it came to do,” Aleishia sighed. “For some reason they didn’t want us to find out anything about the signal.”

“Given the signal’s effect on our shields,” Serhal said, “I believe we can extrapolate that the transmitter was in some way related to the so-called hyperdrive malfunction that affected the transport.”

“No doubt,” Aleishia said, starting to sit up and thinking better of it. “Did you at least manage to record everything, including the ship, before we jumped?”

“What I could.” Serhal retrieved a bottle of clear liquid and pressed it into her hand. “Water. You’re still in shock.”

“Really, I’m not that bad.” But she sipped, noting the mineral taste of Csilla’s meltwater. She wondered absently whether her own skin would eventually develop a blue tinge. “Lisetha can give whatever we find to her husband,” and a giggle that might have been partially hysteria slipped out. “Possibly we should find a way to delay. If we go straight back after the course correction, we may still have to delay. There’ll be a day to go yet.”

Serhal smiled, just a trace. “You don’t think they’ve already tired of each other?”

“Oh, I expect they’re tired,” Aleishia said with a wicked smirk.

“It’s necessary,” Serhal said, but she thought she saw a quirk of the lip. “The sooner Lady Lisetha has an heir....” He stopped himself.

Aleishia had no blood ties or real dignity to preserve, so she had no qualms about saying, “The sooner Lorkad is another step removed from being head of the family.”

Serhal pursed his lips. “I would not say so aloud, but . . . .” He sighed. “I’ve been half-afraid she’d suggest I contract a marriage and have a child to give her an option. If they don’t conceive quickly, she might still insist. She’d prefer anything to her brother now, I think.”

Aleishia swallowed a surge of very un-Jedi-like resentment. There was no chance whatsoever of a half-human child being chosen as an heir, even if Lisetha had wanted to. And that prompted a flare of white-hot guilt. It was barely over two years by the Republic’s reckoning, not quite that in Csilla’s....could she really have forgotten Mihall? Wanted to replace him? To replace their child? On the other hand, Mihall was gone. Ser’halis was alive, and here, and she had no doubts of his sincere affection. Speaking it aloud was not the Chiss way, but he never had to. She knew.

“Given the way they acted at the wedding, even in what passes for public among your people, I suspect if there’s a problem it won’t be for lack of trying.” She kept her tone light. “I’m glad, really. Let them be happy at least in this.”

“My cousin was always did worry a bit,” Serhal admitted, as he took her wrist and checked her pulse. It was a comforting enough gesture Aleishia didn’t pull away or protest that she was fine, even though she did feel perfectly well again. “We all have duties, of course, but for those born to noble blood, some can be pleasant or onerous. Marriage could very easily have been the latter.”

“And unlike her husband she never had the option of walking away,” Aleishia said, not without sympathy.

“No,” Serhal said. “Even refusing to marry would have been awkward. Though possibly not as much if she’d gone down her list of potential suitors by rank instead of up. I’m not unfamiliar with some of the young men and I would hate to come to regret having helped teach Lady Liseth how to pike fight.”

Aleishia thought of how easily Lisetha picked up the most graceful, ornate forms of lightsaber combat and winced. “Well, I suspect that won’t be a problem in this case.”

“Even if she tried, my impression is Commander Thrawn is more than capable of defending himself.” He checked her pulse again. “You seem to be feeling better.”

Aleishia took another sip of the cold water, and nodded. “I was . . . only startled. Whoever–whatever–was flying that scout ship was very much like what attacked . . . me on the moon where Lisetha found me.” Too familiar, too dark . . . she shook the thought away. “Did you manage to record its vector out of hyperspace?”

“Yes,” he said, obviously taking the hint and withdrawing just a bit. Serious business again. “Though it would perhaps have been more useful to record its outgoing vector, I felt remaining long enough to ascertain that would be unwise.”  
“We’ll have to work with what we have, then,” Aleishia said. “When we drop out of hyperspace for the course correction we can examine where it came from. I doubt they were foolish enough to make a straight jump from their home base, but perhaps we could narrow matters down.”

“Or at least delay another day so Lady Lisetha will officially want to see us again?” Serhal allowed himself a small smile. “Depending on where the trail leads us we might even go seeking more information to bring back.”

Aleishia thought of the mind that had reached for hers and shivered. You . . . I remember. “We’ll see where the Force takes us,” was all she said aloud.

  
Lisetha sat in her usual chair in the Council chamber, trying to pretend she was interested in anything the High Councilor of the Seventh was saying and knowing she was failing miserably. Even if her grandfather had not been giving her narrow-eyed, vitriolic glares to show he observed her failings, she’d seen other looks, some puzzled, some indulgent, but only barely by now.

Isn’t the glow supposed to have worn off by now? She imagined they were wondering much the same as she was. Weeks after the wedding, Thrawn back on duty including those that took him away for far longer than she’d have preferred, and she was supposed to be fully attentive to her duties once again. She was supposed to be calm and dignified, no different than she had been before except for no longer being a potential ally by marriage. Not mentally counting the days until she would see her husband again, jumping at every comm that might be word he’d be back sooner than anticipated.

Dreading the same comm, some part of her afraid it would be Thrass, or Thaenil, or some minor functionary, to tell her that he would never be back at all.

Surely, she told herself, if that were the case, she’d know. She’d feel if something had happened to him. Thrawn might be utterly blind to the Force, but he was still part of it and she could sense him in it. And it was an absurd fear. They weren’t openly at war. There were skirmishes and pirates, there always were, but nothing that should prompt the constant worry she had whenever she let herself think of him with his fleet command group, so far from Csilla if anything were to happen. And that was without accounting for their mysterious adversaries.

That was almost enough to have her order her flyer readied. Despite what Serhal and Aleishia had found, there had been no progress on identifying or even locating the homeworld of the dark ships. Thrawn had the information, as did Thrass, but there was only so much that could be done without arousing any suspicions. And that meant they still had nothing significant enough that she could demand the Council take action. The official report of their inspection tour had only confirmed supplies were not what they should be, and at the Council’s recommendation Syndic Mitth’ras’saffis had ordered increased Defense Force presence in his sector to protect the cargo shipments. So far, all patrols had been utterly uneventful. Even the sort of normal pirate and smuggling activity was lower than expected.

It all felt distinctly off, but without further evidence there was nothing Lisetha could do. That irked her almost as much as Thrawn’s absence.

She realized Rifenlas was standing, and glancing at her with a faintly amused glint in his eye. The other Councilors were, she realized, in various states of half-risen and she felt her face flush. “I apologize,” she said, standing much too quickly, but it allowed the others to finish rising from their seats. “My mind was light-years away.”

“With the fleet, no doubt,” Pherek grumbled, deliberately loud enough for everyone to hear.

“On many things,” Lisetha retorted, more tartly than she probably ought. “There are questions as yet unanswered and this troubles me. But, as you and the Councilor of the Sixth have so repeatedly emphasized, there is no evidence of any trouble.”

“Because there is none,” Pherek retorted. “No matter what you husband may whisper to you in the dark.”

Lisetha gritted her teeth behind a polite, composed smile. “Let us hope the situation remains the same, then.” It was easier now to keep her tone calm, though. Pherek might have raged and shouted and nearly given himself a fit (so her source said) on finding out not only had his son attended Lisetha’s wedding, but that the marriage to the utterly unsuitable commoner was not only accomplished fact, but indissoluble. Of course the last bit hadn’t only surprised him. She’d seen suddenly-averted looks from people as far removed as the cleaners who kept the Council chamber dust-free. “There are enough dangers in the galaxy we don’t need to go borrowing trouble.”

“I do hope the Second Councilor can take her own advice,” Orkeli said. “I would hate to see you stress yourself, with a new marriage to adapt to already. Though of course, marrying an officer, I suppose that does not occupy your time as much it might have if you’d chosen someone closer to home.”

Lisetha debated laughing, or possibly using the Force to send him tumbling down the steps of the raised dais where the Council sat, but restrained both impulses. “It does leave me more than enough time to attend the duties of politics, Sixth Councilor,” she said. “And of course, there are resources available to me in a more direct fashion now than there were before.” She thought, though she wasn’t sure, that he blanched just a little.

She put the thought aside as she left the Council chamber, Serhal trailing his usual public discreet distance behind. There weren’t so many people to meet with today, as she had almost cleared the backlog of such things she had admittedly allowed to pile up during the later stages of her courtship. Still, she had reports she could review, and naturally time to talk to Serhal about further exploration of the mysterious enemy’s fighter and the beacon . . . .

“You’re becoming as prone to losing yourself in thought as your husband, sister.” The friendly tone jarred her out of her reverie, even as the Force alerted her to a sudden familiar presence. Thrass smiled, catching her by the elbow as she almost stumbled on her own hem as she stopped. “I don’t you even saw me.”

“Thrass! Forgive me, I was light-years away.” She smiled, sincerely, but hoped he didn’t see the faint flash of disappointment that he was not the one of the brothers she most wanted to see. Thrawn was not due back for at least a standard week.

“I could see that. I can guess where, I think,” and from anyone else she might have been irked at the teasing so many weeks past the wedding. But Thrass meant nothing other to tease her as he would his blood sibling. “If it’s any comfort, I gather your husband’s not entirely been his usual stoic self. Rumor has it he’s been known to smile while on duty for no reason at all.”

“Thrawn, smiling on duty? You must be mistaken. People would think he’d gone soft.” Lisetha was smiling herself, though. “He’s not so distracted he sends much in the way of communiques. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything unusual from him.”

Thrass’s expression and his sense in the Force became just a trace blank. “Nothing other than to report he’s found nothing unusual. There have been no recent worker transports, and no interference with shipments of food and supplies to the Stiggond Belt. And no signs of abnormal traffic in or out.”

Lisetha pressed her lips tight. “We may have flushed our quarry before we were adequately prepared to run it to ground. Either they’ve moved operations and we’ll need to find them again, or–“

“Or they’ve gotten what they needed and have moved on to another phase of whatever the grand plan is.” Thrass’s expression was perfectly composed, but she could see the extra tension. “This is going to be difficult if they’ve moved on to a new plan and we have no leads.”

“They’ll be looking for either targets or more allies,” Lisetha said, turning and walking as Thrass fell into step beside her, just family walking together and taking a chance to catch up. No one in the corridor would ever eavesdrop deliberately, but there was always the potential for being accidentally overheard. “And while I don’t doubt Thaenil’s support, given the inconclusive results of our previous investigation Orkeli and Grandfather are firmly against any more inquiries, and the rest are noncommittal at best.”

“We’ll have to find them new evidence,” Thrass said. “Something solid that they can’t ignore. But without having an excuse, for example signs of illegal colonization or unidentified ship traffic in my sector, I can hardly justify asking for further Defense Force patrols.”

“Yet while we wait for that excuse, whatever their plans are proceed.” They had reached her office, part of the warren of the government complex. She rarely spent much time in it, but there were sometimes matters best dealt with in an official environment. Today her public schedule included open time here, where any petitioners or fellow councilors could meet with her and discuss any business they felt should be brought to her attention. “I don’t suppose my husband has offered any suggestions for speeding matters along.” She let Serhal activate the door, still looking at Thrass as they stepped into her reception room, where a casual sense of the room in the Force had already told her there was at least one person waiting.

Thrass’s smile broadened just a bit. “Of course he does. But best ask him yourself.”

  
Lisetha turned, the Force-sense of the waiting area’s other occupant suddenly familiar, welcome, positively a beacon, even before the dark uniform and the face of the person wearing it registered. “Thrawn!” She didn’t bother waiting to hear the door slide shut, flinging herself into his arms and kissing him in a way that was hardly appropriate even behind closed doors with only family.

Thrawn clearly wasn’t concerned with propriety, given he made no effort to break off the embrace before she reluctantly stepped back. Instead, he only gave her that little quirk of a smile that she could never decide was more annoying or charming. “I should go away for longer stretches if this is the sort of greeting I can expect on my return, wife.”

“If you do that I’ll have to start making excuses for more investigative trips,” Lisetha countered. “I wasn’t expecting you back in-system for at least a few more days. When did you get here?”

“Last night, local time,” he said. “I had intended to call on you first thing, but Thrass suggested the surprise.”

“I don’t know whether to thank you or slap you, brother.” From the smirk on her brother-in-law’s face, he’d expected as much. But her attention turned quickly back to her husband. “How long–“

“We’ll be resupplying and integrating new crew into the task force, so I’ll be in the system, if not necessarily on Csilla, for at least two weeks barring any emergencies.”

“Two weeks . . . .” She sighed. “That used to not seem like the blink of an eye. Especially as you aren’t on furlough now.”

“No,” and there was just the slightest displeased tension at the corners of his mouth. “But off-duty hours will be much more flexible than when we’re deployed.”

“How will you manage it, not being free to spend your entire rest cycle contemplating your art collection in the privacy of your cabin?” Thrass teased.

Thrawn’s smile became just the slightest bit predatory. “Oh, I suppose I can manage for a few nights.” He didn’t take his eyes from Lisetha, though. “I suppose, though, we should leave the High Councilor to her business for now. She undoubtedly has more important duties to attend to than amusing a soldier on leave and a lowly Syndic.”

It was Lisetha’s turn to smirk. “Now you’re being obnoxious. But as it happens, yes, I do have things to finish here. But I’ll be home by dinner and I’ll expect you to be, too.” Realizing how rude it sounded, she looked to Thrass. “Of course, you’re welcome to join us–“

Her brother-in-law was already waving the offer away. “Your excruciating politeness does your Family credit,” and the smile took the sting from the teasing, “but I know when my presence is extraneous. In any case I have my own duties that require my attention and I’d only have to depart inexcusably early. As it is, I have enough time to surprise you, go with my brother here to pay a belated call on Th’res’elen–“

“Thresel is Thaenil’s younger son,” Thrawn interrupted, clearly seeing her puzzled look. “He voluntarily withdrew from the Eighth Family’s official descent some time ago, to devote himself to his work.”

“A calligraphy artist, I remember now,” and she did. A very odd career choice for any of the direct blood of a Family, and downright strange for the Eighth with its military tradition. But Th’res’elen had made sufficient name for himself it was unlikely to trouble him greatly. “I’ll have to look at some of his work when I have time. I think Father gave mother one of his illustrated epics for her nameday once.”

“I’m sure he’d be glad of your patronage,” Thrawn said, and some odd frisson passed between him and his brother, invisible but clear enough in the Force. “And some of his more abstract screens might suit this space better than the flatsculps you have now. They’re a bit aggressive for such a small room–“

“That’s it, we’re going.” It was Thrass’s turn to interrupt. “If we don’t stop him now he’ll have you raiding the Civic Galleries and redecorating the entire public complex.”

“Hm, maybe I should bring the up at the next Council meeting,” but she noticed with some alarm that Thrawn was clearly considering that seriously. “Go, then, I have to be a responsible High Councilor and finish here. Thrass, it’s good to see you. Thrawn, I expect you promptly after your duty shift ends. If you’re late I expect the excuse to be that the home system’s been invaded and you had to deal with it.”

“I’d make sure to finish them off quickly and not be too late,” Thrawn said, and Lisetha felt the flickers of surprise from Thrass and from Ser’halis in his unobtrusive corner. Surprised Thrawn had a sense of humor even about invasion? They’d probably be stunned at the sort of things he laughed at in private, then . . . but that was a bit too private to share, no matter how it might amuse them.

Lisetha pressed her hand to his heart. “I’ll hold you to that. Now run along, I have work to do.” She returned the respectful nod from Thrass, and watched the brothers depart before turning to Ser’halis. “I’ll send you ahead to home, then. I’ll want you and Aleishia with us for a private dinner. That means arranging for no interruptions.”

“You think your husband will want to talk about . . . the other business, and not spend his time with you?” There was slight teasing, but only slight.

“I think he needs to. That’s why Thrass staged this the way he did. He was telling me there’s nothing more he can do without greater evidence.” She went to her inner office and sat, calling up the correspondence she really did need to get out of the way on the desk screen. “Which means you, Aleishia, Thrawn and I need to come up with a way to find some.”

“We’ve tried.” Serhal followed her in, standing near the door. “Do you really think we can do this?”

Lisetha looked up at him, feeling a little bit of the cold Aristocra’s mask settling back over her features. She saw him flinch, it wasn’t fair, but it was necessary. “Do you really think we have a choice?” There was doubt in his expression, but after a long moment, he sighed, and only nodded.


	13. In Sunlight or in Shadow

Two weeks was closer to one and a half, then it was a month before Thrawn found some excuse to be home again, and then more oddly-spaced separations, until it almost became natural to Lisetha. Almost. But, as she reminded herself, she had chosen Thrawn in many ways because of that pathological devotion to duty, not in spite of it. It was hardly fair to be angry now.

Hardly.

Her mother was the only one who seemed willing to risk her increasingly-short temper openly. They were dining together when Seleka observed, "If you frown as much as you have during this one meal on a normal day, you're going to frighten all your servants out of the house."

"I'm simply not in a mood to play at smiling," and the tone was much sharper than Lisetha had intended. "I've had a great deal on my mind and I'm tired."

"And perhaps tired of not seeing your husband as often as you might?" Seleka held up a hand, warding off the angry retort Lisetha was already preparing. "I remember. Before your grandmother died and your father was still serving in the Defense Force I missed him terribly. Poetry and comm channels are no substitute."

Poetry, yes . . . Lisetha let her gaze turn to the small scroll of swirling, multi-colored calligraphy she'd hung where she could readily see at least twice a day. It was done with delicate brush strokes and in glittering gold and burgundy inks that showed nicely against the black parchment background. The border was worked in an exquisite pattern of blues that reminded her of nebulas and comet-tails. One of Thresel's finer pieces of work, and the poem itself was a heartbreakingly affectionate selection from the ancient volumes. It was a warrior, asking the night to grow longer and the stars brighter, to buy him more time with his heart's flame before being called away to duty. The message was as clear as Thrawn was ever likely to be and Lisetha realized there was a painful lump in her throat.

"I'm merely tired," she said, hating to hear her voice quaver. Seleka looked as if she'd wanted to debate the point, but chose otherwise. "There's a great deal of tension in the Council and your father has not been helping."

She saw her mother flinch. "Father is ill. I think more than he lets on." She stared into the clear broth in her bowl as if it were some kind of scrying glass. "It has gotten worse of late."

"Then perhaps he should step down and allow Uncle Pierik to speak for him." Lisetha took a sip of her own soup, and then lowered her spoon with a grimace. Too much longseed pod. How her mother could stomach it she didn't know. "He's practically irrational and it's becoming impossible to stomach. I was almost sick myself yesterday listening to him go on about how the Defense Force is overreaching itself."

Seleka was studying her again, her brow just the slightest bit furrowed. "Are you absolutely certain you're feeling quite well now? Only, forgive me, you seem more than merely tired."

Lisetha sighed and fought down another unreasonable flare of anger. "Please, mother, I don't need to hear this from you, too."

She realized her mistake when she saw the look on her mother's face. "Me, too?" Seleka asked, and looked over her shoulder towards the folding screen. "Ser'halis? Aleisha?"

The bodyguard, Aleishia moving like a veiled shadow behind him, stepped from his alcove. "Yes, my lady?"

"Has your lady been unwell?" Seleka was giving Serhal the kind of direct, aristocratic glare Lisetha doubted she could muster up on her best day, which this most emphatically wasn't.

Serhal looked like a snow-creeper caught in a beam of light, and his heart was probably beating as fast as one of the tiny nocturnal rodents facing two predators as he looked from Seleka to Lisetha and back again. "She . . . has been very busy, my lady. I'm sure it's quite stressful."

Seleka's eyes narrowed. "Aleishia?"

_Don't you dare tell her I've been oversleeping,_ Lisetha lashed out mentally. "Mother, they aren't going to spy for you."

She felt the mental pressure Aleishia was directing to her mother as she spoke. "She's been a bit tired, Lady Als'ele'kadre. Noting serious."

Seleka looked a bit . . . confused for a moment, and Lisetha thought for a second Aleishia had completely diverted her mother's attention. But apparently it was only the usual misdirection about Aleishia's accent and the veil, because her mother turned back to her. "Daughter, I know that it must be stressful. You're very young to be a High Councilor, and I can sympathize at having a husband you care for who has duties that take him away. But, really . . . you must take better care of yourself."

"I'm perfectly fine, Mother, and I'm tired of talking about this." She set down her spoon, picked up her tea, and winced at that. The leaves must be old. She almost complained, but squelched a surge of unreasonable annoyance with some effort and merely added three spoonfuls of sweetening. It was almost palatable now.

After her mother departed, after one final, skeptical once-over, Lisetha spent ten minutes reading notes for the Council before her solar became unbearable stifling. She was seized with a restless urge to be doing _something_ other than this choking busy work, and retreated to the training salon. Aleishia and Serhal had made themselves scarce, and she was relieved. The _last_ thing she wanted at the moment was anyone making even the most tactful suggestions about technique.

One training remote didn't seem to be enough, so she activated three of them, but from the moment her saber ignited something felt off. Her balance, her center, her state of mind, something simply wasn't where it should be. And she couldn't get it back. The first bolt she missed sizzled past and hit the floor, but as she whirled, precognition giving her a heartbeat's warning of the remote behind her, she couldn't turn back in time to block either of the next ones and they stung mercilessly into her unprotected back and shoulder. Normally, that only angered her, strengthened her resolve.

Today, she crumpled to her knees, her saber deactivating. She barely had enough energy to reach out with the Force and deactivate the drones before the sobs were more than she could control.

What was _wrong_ with her? She ought to be happy! Instead, nothing felt right. Thrawn was always too far away, all of her suspicions and clues about the danger lurking in the Council kept coming to nothing, she was simply _so tired_ and then couldn't sleep, and now even her Force abilities were slipping away? It was absurd, it was ridiculous, it was completely pathetic. Lisetha closed her eyes and, feeling a sense of futility about it, turned her mind within, looking for that point of stability and serenity, the core of her being that was one with the Force.

She found that center, but grasping it seemed so much harder than usual. Of course it would; everything was miserable today. She forced her breathing to slow, her heart rate to ease, and tried to let the Force flow through her, reinforce her, make her stable and give her that secure touchstone again. Lisetha felt for it, looked for the bright energy, that surrounded and penetrated her and bound her to other points of light within it, the foci of its energy, life itself–

Like the tiny flicker, within her but not entirely of her, that sleepily flickered at her touch.

Lisetha froze. That wasn't normal. This was not her own energy, not her own pattern in the Force. It had its own brilliance, harmonizing with hers, nestled within the flow of the Force and yet protected from it, sheltering within her, alien but also somehow intimately familiar. Feeling herself relax even as she saw it, Lisetha reached, delicately probing, and touched the little spark of energy.

There was a tiny flare of surprise, and a little fear. Lisetha found herself soothing it instinctively with a rush of warmth and light, and she felt the spark respond. Of course it was startled-until this moment it had not realized it wasn't completely alone in the universe, in this safe, warm, darkness where there was only the Force. Now it was not fearful, but inquisitive, curious about this new contact reaching out to it, and in its own fuzzy, half-formed way, it reached back.

Lisetha realized she was still weeping, but it was not exhaustion now. Gently, she refined her touch, imagining arms enfolding the tiny light and protecting it, sheltering it. The curiosity started to fade, leaving a sleepy sort of astonishment, and a wordless question. Lisetha smiled even as she formed the answer.

_Hello, little one. I'm your mother._

Thrawn knew that the summons from his wife, coming so close on the heels of these orders, couldn't possibly presage anything good. She had to know the fleet's orders and he couldn't pretend he hadn't agreed to them–helped plan them, even. The deep-sector patrol would take them to the far edges of Ascendency territory, establish new communications relays for far colonies and the protectorate systems, and, unofficially and off the record, look for where those worker ships and ore transports were going. If there was any sign of their activity, they would have proof.

The fact that this sweep would take approximately six months by Csilla's time was, he expected, more than acceptable to almost everyone. Except Lisetha.

Worse, some part of him hated the notion of such a long separation, too. Lisetha would have thrived in the fleet, even if she'd been limited by her status as heir to an early resignation. If it were the ancient days, with such long journeys officers could bring their spouses, she would have adored shipboard life. The only trouble would have been keeping her off the bridge or out of a fighter. Now, though, even if he'd had that kind of flexibility, Lisetha could no more be spared from the Council than he could beg off duty on his end. And on this sort of assignment he couldn't have asked for leaves of a few days or a week even if had been feasible. Separation was part of life in the Defense Force, one he'd known more as an intellectual exercise than a real trial.

Now, even while the warrior in him was ready to be gone, craving the challenge, part of him considered six months in deep space with Lisetha light-years away the cruelest form of torture anyone could have devised. Bad enough when duty required weeks away, with only the memory of her (he could close his eyes even now and feel her hair, silky tangles around his fingers, breathe in the scent of her skin in his imagination.)

Thrawn shook off the thought as he entered the house he still couldn't completely view as home, even part of the time. The Second Family's ancestral home was near the center of the capital and built up far more than the common apartments he'd been raised in. His mother's devotion to the military meant she had kept their home almost as spartan as her quarters on bases, and Thrawn was accustomed to it himself. Lisetha's home always felt, in a strange way, elegant, yet more confining. Perhaps today it simply seemed more so because once again, he was going to have to hurt her.

It was Aleishia, in her dark blue camsilk, who met him, and to his surprise she actually spoke to him for a change as she made a show of escorting him to the garden. "Try not to upset her," she said, in that oddly accented Cheunh. "She's better than she was, but the littlest thing is still setting her off, even now that she has a better grip on why."

"Better?" Thrawn had the strange experience of guilt and fear competing for dominance of his emotions when both were normally strangers. "Better than what? Has she been ill? And I thought she sent for me because I _had_ upset her. What's wrong?"

Even with the veil hiding them, he could almost see those alien eyes, staring at him far too boldly even for a pretend servant, and he again had the disconcerting feeling that this human was judging him and finding him completely unworthy. Or maybe not him alone, because she only sighed and said, " _Males!_ " before leaving him at entrance to the central garden.

The garden was a work of art itself, and normally Thrawn would have enjoyed strolling through it far more. Now, though, he barely glanced at the carefully-planted shrubs and flowers, designed among rocks and raked paths to mimic what nature looked like on worlds not encased in ice, or at least a highly idealized version of those. He knew where he was likely to find Lisetha, and he was correct. She was seated on the low bench beside a long, shallow pool. Even with the temperatures artfully regulated in the gardens there was always a thin film of ice across the surface, and it gave the water veils swimming just below it a slightly distorted look, more than the long lace-like bodies of the aquatic creatures already did.

Lisetha did not _look_ particularly angry or distressed, Thrawn noted.. She was wearing soft grey robes today, belted with a sash embroidered in delicate reds and burgundy, and she was toying with her necklace as she stared into the pond. Pensive was a better word, or even serene. Her hair was back and in that soft, half-coiled braid she seemed to favor when occasion did not call for formal restraint. The entire portrait was one of gentle contemplation, not bitterness or sadness.

When she looked up, her smile was as genuine as ever, too. "I'm so glad you're here. Come, sit. I know you must be busy preparing, but I'm glad you could get away."

Thrawn moved to her side rather more hastily than he normally would, feeling strangely awkward. He didn't recall seeing her like this before–the cold aristocra, the coy newlywed, passionate lover, even, but there was a strange, otherworldly, almost secretive air about her at the moment. Thrawn ordinarily liked anomalies. They gave him something to puzzle out. But where his wife was concerned . . . .

"Of course I came." It was strange to be reluctant to touch her-in private they had no formalities, no barriers–but today there was something ethereal, fragile, and he was afraid she'd fade away if he broke the spell. Ridiculous; he grasped her hand firmer than he might otherwise, just to prove to himself he was being superstitious. Her fingers tightened and she smiled, and he was absurdly relieved. "I'm sure you've heard, but I would have come soon to tell you anyway. My patrol group has been given an assignment." She nodded, her eyes still on the water veils spiraling just beneath the ice. "Deep rim, recently pacified systems. And possibly the direction from which the dark ships have come and gone. That last is not official, of course."

Lisetha turned now, her gaze finally fixing on him. That faint, strange smile still played about her lips. "Of course. And I'm sorry. You're being punished because they can't touch me. At the moment, even having Riefenlas's friendship and being highest after him doesn't help. No one believes me. For now, I have to be quiet and penitent."

"Don't be absurd." He stroked his thumb across the back of her hand, noting how he still made her shiver. So much for the notion it would all wear off once marriage became routine. "I am perfectly capable of making enemies on my own."

"And I've gone and made it worse." Lisetha traced her fingers down his cheek, and the kiss almost made him forget why he'd come. "At least out there you'll be on your own, too far to have to ask before you act. Until yesterday I wished I could I go with you. Not just because six months is far too long not to see you."

"You weren't meant to be trapped in a political cage," he murmured. Her hair had a faint scent of starclimber flowers, and he wanted to remember it.

"We're all born into traps here," she said. "I used to think it might be different, but since meeting Aleishia I suspect it's much the same everywhere. We all have a role to play. I might not enjoy mine all the time, but there _are_ compensations." Now the smile was that sly, private little smile he'd realized she reserved only for him.

"Not for six months, though." It seemed unusual, even for them, but had she simply called him here to make the most of what time they had before he was deployed? "I'm sorry. I don't want to be gone so long. I cannot, of course, refuse the order–"

Lisetha laughed, startling him. Her eyes had a particular glow, he thought, one he couldn't quite understand or place. "Thrawn, you are who you are. I knew that. You realize some contracted couples would envy our excuses to spend time apart? I expect that poor little waif from the Sixth that my brother's fixed on will end up wishing he'd be assigned to deep patrols on a regular basis. But she's agreed, or so Uncle Pierek tells me." Her lips pressed thin.

"Don't think about your idiot brother." He stroked her cheek. Her skin was soft, silken, begging him to touch more. "The Defense Force isn't somewhere for incompetents to hide–eventually, he'll make the right mistake. And if the Sixth Family is smart, the contract will have a generous severance clause."

"Oh, I try not to think about him. Especially not now." Her hand tightened on his again. "Three days?"

"Three days." Even the timetable for departure smacked of a deliberate slight. "I will, of course, spend as much of them as I can with you, but preparations will be intense–"

And she laughed. A genuine, if almost brittle sound. Thrawn stared as she rose, pulling away, and pressed her hand to her mouth as if she were stifling a full-blown laughing fit. "Thrawn," she said, tentatively taking her fingers from her lips as if she weren't quite sure she had herself under control. "I'm not angry. I'm not _happy_ , of course, but especially now I can manage six months apart. I won't enjoy it, but I can manage, because I called you here to tell you something important. Something that will keep me more than preoccupied."

She held out her hands and he rose, taking them, trying all the while to puzzle out exactly what she was talking about. Another lead? She'd been speaking with her uncle–possibly he had let something slip, or even offered information? High Councilor Pherek was ill as well, and angry or not he was still her grandfather. As far as he knew there was no pending Council business of a serious nature but then, she would know far more about that than he would. But if it had to do with the dark ships or the missing workers, then his being weeks of travel away would not be cause for relief. "I don't understand." It was the most painful thing he'd had to admit in recent memory.

Lisetha shook her head. "Oh, I'm not explaining myself well. Mother and Aleishia are right, I _am_ getting scatterbrained. But they promise it'll be over soon. Long before you're back, so you don't even have to suffer with them."

Thrawn wondered if he ought to call for Aleishia, or Ser'halis, or someone. Lisetha was obviously ill. "Perhaps you should sit down." But she held her ground when he tried to pull her back to the bench.

"Thrawn, no, I'm fine. I'm better than fine." He didn't quite believe her. "Six months is almost perfect, not because you'll be gone, but because when you come home, I will be able to present you with your firstborn."

Thrawn was acutely aware of the sound of the air system mimicking a breeze, the rustle of leaves, faint trickling of the water in the pond, even what was probably the kilometers of ancient ice shifting its fractions of inches above. It was amazing he could hear all that over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, an unfamiliar sensation creeping up from deep inside until he had to clutch her hands tightly to stop his own trembling. None of it made sense, though. There were a thousand pieces of the puzzle swirling in his mind but none of them wanted to fit together in any other shape but one, incomprehensible one.

"Firstborn . . . a baby? Our baby? You're . . . ." She was laughing at him, but it only made her more beautiful, as if it were possible, when she was already the most stunning, miraculous person in his entire universe. "You're pregnant?"

Lisetha nodded, looking, strangely enough, almost ready to cry. "Yes."

Thrawn needed to hear it again. It didn't make sense. He had been fully prepared for her anger, for sadness at another, long separation. Not for the entire galaxy to be blissfully, suddenly, perfect, and at the center of everything was _this_. "Pregnant...a baby–how? When?"

"You know that part as much I do!" She flung her arms around him and he kissed her, once again stunned. "I hate that you're going, but when you come home, we'll have our first child. You'll be a father."

She burrowed into his embrace and he tightened his arms, almost dizzy with the realization he was holding what he'd already thought was the most precious thing in the galaxy to him, only he'd had no idea. Now it made perfect sense. Everything made sense, even his own parents and everything they had traded for Thrass and for him.. There was nothing he wouldn't have given to feel this happy, to protect Lisetha and their child, make them as happy as he was this instant. Although . . . .

"Pregnant–you should be sitting down. Shouldn't you? Are you cold? You can have my jacket, here, it doesn't matter if I'm out of uniform in private. Maybe you should be inside. Are you tired? Hungry? Perhaps you should rest."

Lisetha laughing so hard it _certainly_ couldn't be good for her. "Thrawn, husband–our people have been successfully reproducing for thousands of years. I'm fine. I don't need to sit down. However, now that you mention it, I think I might need to lie down." There was something low and inviting in her voice now and he was following her back up the path almost before he realized he was doing it. "And I don't mean to rest, and I don't mean alone. Even with the baby to occupy me, six months will still be a _very_ long time."

Thrawn stopped, for a moment not realizing what she meant. Then she was kissing him again, much slower, teasing, and he had to forcibly stop himself. "You–what, _now?_ "

"The time of day hasn't affected your performance before." She nuzzled his throat, kissing her way slowly up. "And you must have been thinking the same thing. Three days is nothing and six months is so very, very long."

He shivered, trying to contain himself. "Well, the thought had crossed my mind," at some point, dimly, in the time before he'd realized his world was as perfect and happy as it was every likely to be. "But are you certain it's wise? The baby–"

"It will do the baby no harm," Lisetha sighed near his ear, "and it will do me a _very_ great deal of good. Now, am I going to have to beg?"

Thrawn was certainly not going to make his wife, the mother of his child, plead. Not now. Not with only three days. But he wasn't taking any chances either. "Very well. But I am not letting you take any unnecessary risks. I know you're far too fond of them." He swept her up in his arms before she could object, though the way she giggled and clung tighter suggested she hadn't been planing to.

"You know, I am perfectly capable of walking," but she sounded more as if she were perfectly content. "And you won't even be here when I really need help getting around."

"So this will have to do for now." He paused, staring down at her. "Just as I'll have to be content with remembering how happy you've made me, until I come home."

"And that won't be soon enough." Lisetha's smile was more beautiful, he thought, a smile that hinted at knowing something wonderful. Of course she did, they both did now. And by the time this mission was over and he returned, he would be able to tell their child how this had been the happiest moment of his entire life.

_To: Syndic Mitth'ras'saffis_

_From: Fleet Admiral Ar'alani_

_Subject: Xhalat Task Force Search and Rescue Response_

_Syndic, I regret to inform you that after multiple probes and scout ships were dispatched to respond to the patrol group's distress signal, we have recovered only sufficient wreckage to determine that CEDF ships were destroyed on the edges of the Xhalat-Prime system. Given the amount of debris, absence of further signals from the group ships and the anomalously powerful defensive response by the Xhalat, we are forced to conclude that Fleet Commander Mitth'raw'nurodo's task force was destroyed without survivors. The fleet will regroup and await confirmation of orders for a retaliatory attack on the system, though the lack of prior aggression and their denials make it, frankly, difficult to believe they could be responsible alone. With the number of moons and large asteroids in the system and multiple populated worlds, it is impossible to ascertain the precise source of the assault on our group. Express to the Council our intent to punish this uprising in the severest possible way, as soon as authorization is granted._

_On a personal note, allow me to express my deepest condolences on the loss of your brother. He may have been one of the fleet's more eccentric officers, but he was also one of its finest and a credit to our people. Please convey my sympathies to your sister-in-law as well and those of the entire Fleet. The Second High Councilor has always been a friend to the Defense Force and we stand ready to provide whatever aide and comfort we may in her bereavement. You may both rest assured that we will determine how he was lost, and we will avenge him and his crew._

_Regards, and once again, sincerest condolences,_

_Fleet Admiral Ar'alani_

_Copy to Consular Offices, Fleet Archives_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'll just leave you there. Going to work on _Resurrection_ for a bit!


	14. Dark Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrass tries to help his sister-in-law face facts and fails miserably, while Thrawn confronts the realities of surviving while stranded. Including crew tensions of a rather personal nature.

Thrass wasn't sure what reaction he had expected from his sister-in-law–sister, he made himself think. Lisetha was his sister. Now more than ever. Not hysterics, he hadn't expected that. Tears? Quite probably. Numbness, exhaustion, shock, even madness of a kind.

Serene politeness as she sat at her desk, a cup of some genuinely terrible-smelling oily broth, some kind of fish, he thought, at her hand, wearing perfectly ordinary clothes when he'd expected black-edged widow's whites had not even crossed his mind. He thought, though he couldn't be sure, that he saw some signs of weariness around her eyes, but she seemed completely normal.

"Sister . . . Lisetha . . . I'm not quite sure you've really let this sink in." Of course, he couldn't blame her. They had married in hand, and he felt guilty but cursed Thrawn for that anyway, and she was condemned now to a life of perpetual widowhood. Certainly, some who lost partners never remarried, but those were couples whose contracts had been extended more than once and who were older. The young? Sometimes it might take a year or two, or longer, but usually they found a partner again. Lisetha was by her own and Thrawn's choice married even now, when she was in fact a widow.

"I'm perfectly lucid, Thrass," she said, pausing to take a sip of the oily broth. "I'm upset, of course, but I am quite sane."

"Then . . . sister, I will miss him, too, but we have to face facts." He didn't want to. He couldn't begin to grasp the idea that his brother, his little brother, was simply gone from the galaxy. Thrawn might be exasperating-no one knew that better than Thrass–but the idea that he'd never be there with another of his utterly calculated yet completely insane strategies again, that Thrass would never see that knowing, self-satisfied smile when of course it all worked out the way Thrawn intended . . . it was impossible to process, but he must. "Thrawn is dead."

"No." She said it so calmly he almost didn't understand. "I would know if he were dead. Something's happened," and there was an odd, distant look in her eyes, "but he's not dead."

Thrass shifted uneasily. Stress, of course, could do strange things to the strongest mind, but this was bordering on full delusion. "There's been no communication. No sign of the patrol ships other than some debris. No sign of any escape pods or even enemy activity."

"I read the reports." How could she possibly be so calm? It was ridiculous, but Thrass was beginning to question his either the sincerity of her affection or her grasp on reality. "If they had been completely destroyed, there would be more indication. Thrawn would make sure of that if only to leave evidence. You know him, Thrass. He couldn't be taken so completely by surprise and even if he were, he wouldn't lose an entire patrol group."

"Everyone can fail, Lisetha, even my brother." The part of him that desperately wanted to hope had to admit she was right, though, especially the notion that four ships could be surprised and destroyed so completely and so quickly. "The outer worlds of the Xhalat system were both at apogee. Perhaps an error in hyperspace mass calculations–"

"Whatever the cause, it did not result in his death." She looked away, a distant expression in her eyes. "Some, yes, some of the crews, but . . .Thrawn is alive, and we need to find him." Abruptly she grimaced and set down her cup. "Unfortunately I am not in a position to do much of anything at the moment, even if appearances were not a consideration. Aleishia," and the veiled servant stepped forward, "I need something else, this broth has gone cold. Sweetmeal crackers, I think, and oryz porridge. Ask the kitchen to send some at once, please."

Thrass couldn't help himself. His stomach lurched. The notion of following the salty, fishy liquid with two sickly-sweet foods better suited to an invalid's breakfast was too much. "Sister, I'm serious. Perhaps you should consider having someone stay with you, your mother or your sister, for a time."

For the first time in their conversation, Lisetha looked straight at him, and she looked sincerely puzzled. "Oh, I'll be doing that," she said, "but I promise, Thrass, I don't need help accepting reality. I need help finding him."

Before he could point out ho\w terribly difficult that was going to be, there was a sound from the door and the hall servant entered. "Your mother and your sister are here again, m'lady," he said, and at least he sounded suitably subdued. "Should I tell them you're not receiving visitors again?" To his credit, he didn't so much as look at Thrass and acknowledge the obvious falsehood.

"No, Seln, show them in," Lisetha sighed. "I can't avoid them forever."

Lady Seleka, at least, had thin bands of white stitched on her cuffs, adequate to mourn a son by marriage. Lady Kelah was not wearing white, but her clothes were in much more subdued colors than Thrass recalled her wearing before. Seleka's gaze fell on him, and she stopped, giving a gracious nod. "Mitth'ras'saffis, my condolences."

"Thank you, my lady," he said, returning the bow and acknowledging Kelah's silent greeting. "I had thought to offer my sister comfort, but–"

"He thinks I'm mad, too, Mother," Lisetha said dryly. Aleishia returned with a tray bearing a steaming bowl of the sweet gruel and a plate of the plain brown biscuits. "I am not, but you'll be pleased to know he agrees with you."

"Daughter, I do not want to pressure you," and Thrass knew his sister-in-law well enough by now to see the quickly-concealed skeptical grimace cross her features, "but you have to face facts. No one sympathizes more than I, but your husband is dead. You need to accept reality."

"Everyone is so concerned with my state of mind," Lisetha said. "I think I'm better acquainted with it than any of you. My husband is alive, and he'll return to me. Until then I'm certainly not putting on mourning. It would be bad luck." She picked up a biscuit, regarded it thoughtfully, and then to Thrass's astonishment dipped it in the hot fish broth and sampled the results. "That's not so bad," she said thoughtfully, then gestured to the plate. "Biscuit?"

Kelah's expression suggested her stomach had the same response to that display as Thrass's had. "No, thank you. We came to talk about the question of, well, an heir."

Lisetha raised an eyebrow, before delicately sampling a spoonful of the porridge. "You certainly aren't wasting time."

"It's unfortunate, but I knew you'd be . . . distracted," Seleka said. "If you've forgotten, until you declare otherwise absent a child of your own your brother is still next in line."

Lisetha grimaced. "Over my dead body."

"That would be the usual course of events, yes," Seleka replied. "Your options within the direct family are limited, however."

"Not that I want it," Kelah said. "But that won't be an issue for ages so by the time it is I'll have at least one child." She might have cast a very sideways glance in Thrass's direction, but he politely ignored it. "Enough warning and you could raise them as your own."

Lisetha sat back in her chair, absently nibbling at another biscuit. "A tempting offer. And I'll certainly need to revise things to indicate my preference for your children, sister, if it's required.."

Seleka looked as if she were about to point out the problem with that, which if she hadn't Thrass was about to. Unless Lisetha intended to live forever, the question of an heir was certainly a major one. But then her mother's eyes narrowed, and she took a long, hard look at her eldest daughter's notion of a mid-morning snack. "Lisetha, is there something you perhaps wished to tell us?"

Something in that tiny smirk reminded Thrass, painfully, of his brother. "Yes, Mother, as a matter of fact, there was. The position of heir is already filled, though I suppose," and she pressed her hand to her abdomen, "there's always a possibility this little one won't inherit the better aspects of either parent. Or she'll run off and become a pirate or something. Best to have an alternative choice and I doubt you, sister, could find a mate even half as dim as that poor little thing from the Sixth Grandfather's pawned my brother off to."

It took Thrass a moment to quite understand what she meant. But Kelah gasped, and Seleka's smile was almost broad and very sincere. "Now I understand your mood, daughter, and the lack of mourning. Your husband will live on in his child. I had suspected already, but it was your place to say."

"I'm ashamed to say if that's true, you likely knew before I did." Lisetha was still nibbling at the sweetmeal biscuit.

"I do have three children, dear," Seleka said, and Thrass suspected he knew where Lisetha's droll sense of humor came from. "I have a bit more experience than you with these things." She glanced at the food and shook her head. "I was the same with you–I had the strangest cravings at first. Not so much the next times." She stopped herself, looking just faintly embarrassed, and Thrass, at least, understood even if Lisetha looked deliberately, politely, puzzled. There would be no second siblings for comparison purposes, unless Lisetha chose a clinical method of conception, and he couldn't imagine she wouldn't in that case choose a surrogate for the entire business. "The cravings do pass."

"I hope so, as I'm afraid I'm going to make everyone ill, but I'll simply develop a taste for something and nothing else will satisfy it."

There was a double meaning in that, and Thrass didn't miss it. "You know, of course, I'll help in any way I can. If I could bring him back, you know I would." Instead he would simply need to wait for the inevitable breakdown when acceptance finally came, and support her and his niece or nephew through it.

Lisetha's smile thinned just a bit. "I am counting on your help. And of course, Mother, my brother-in-law suggested perhaps you or Kelah might come to stay for a while. I think he fears my state of mind given the circumstances. It would give him some peace of mind to know that I and his little niece or nephew is being looked after."

"Naturally I will. Kelah's duties in the Archives may preclude that for now, but it will be no hardship for me." Seleka's smile seemed strained. "I know how this house can be, after a loss. I will be glad to help prepare for the baby, and help you come to terms with . . . everything else."

Lisetha's eyes narrowed, but she only picked up another biscuit, though mercifully she did not dip this one in the hot broth. Instead, she merely nibbled thoughtfully, and Thrass was not at all certain he was going to like the sort of preparations he suspected Lisetha had in mind. And while he'd promised to help, raising the dead was more of a challenge than he thought he could meet.

Thrawn did not let himself think of anything but the now. Now was surviving until rescue arrived. Now was keeping as many of his remaining crew alive as he could. Now was being certain that Thrass would not write them off without being sure of their deaths, and he would convince the Council to send a rescue mission, no doubt with the Syndic at its head. Until then, there was nothing but shelter, water, food, weapons, and repairs on the faint chance the attack ship could be repaired and they could escape on their own. There was nothing else in now.

He had plenty to occupy him in the now, such as how this had happened in the first place. They should not have been yanked out of hyperspace by the anomalous asteroid belt. The signals that had scrambled the patrol group's inter-ship communications were also anomalous, not true jamming of the sort they performed themselves, but a dampening overlay that had blinded them just long enough for the point ship to be ripped apart. None of their crew had time for escape pods. Thrawn barely had time to order shields up on his own ship before they were under attack. The second ship had been destroyed and their own had taken heavy fire before he ordered a short-range jump, too short-range, but enough to leap their remaining craft closer to Xhalat's primary. It had not saved the other patrol ship. It had turned at the last minute, flinging itself at the shadowy cruiser with its strange weaponry to buy the command ship time to escape. Thrawn hated the sacrifice even as he honored it, even as he knew he and his own crew were only alive because of it.

Their own ship was too damaged even to remain in orbit, let alone attempt to jump back to the nearest Ascendancy outpost. Even the crash-landing had been difficult, claiming two of the engineering crew who'd remained at their posts rather than strapping into crash couches to manually control the inertial dampers and make the crash survivable. Another had fallen when a Xhalat air patrol, with weapons far too advanced for the reptiloid species' level of development, located the crash site. Thrawn had focused on getting the survivors away, finding this ravine that could be defensively fortified, and focusing on food and shelter and treating injuries until they could risk returning to the crash, stealing more and more pieces to build weapons, a transmitter, some kind of signal to let the Defense Force know they were alive. During the day and most of each planetary night, all of Thrawn's faculties were focused on that. That, and dodging patrols of the Xhalat, staying alive long enough to get a message away, keeping what was left of his crew together and safe and sane.

But at night or in the early morning, whenever he allowed himself a few precious hours of sleep, his dreams were of long, silken hair, soft skin, the welcoming curves of Lisetha's body, and her voice, murmuring reassurances that he would be home, soon, that he would come back to her, that she never dressed in widow's whites or mourned. He even thought he could see the changes pregnancy must have wrought, though in his dreams it seemed to only make her more beautiful somehow, no matter how she pouted and complained of the inconvenience, the slowness and care she had to move with.

Strangest of all were the times when he thought they were only sitting together, in the garden or in her solar, talking. She listened calmly as he described the problems of the day, comforted him when another of his crew fell to the Xhalat hunters, and diverted him with talk of the Council and its usual idiocy, news of his brother's forces, and her own condition.

_"A daughter," she assured him, her hand a ghostly pressure on his, "I'm quite sure now. By the time you're home you'll have a daughter."_

_"Son or daughter, so long as you are well." He ignored the part about his return. "If your family is . . . unhelpful, speak to Thrass. He will help, for my sake."_

_"He has his own concerns," Lisetha said, smiling with a distant expression. "Spending all the political capital I have and he has to convince the Defense Force to look for you. And as that will be the most help he could ever provide me, I won't bother him further. I'd come for you myself but your timing is absolutely terrible."_

Thrass would find them. He had to be certain of that, and dream-Lisetha's constant assurances of it were undoubtedly his subconscious reinforcing that belief. From their position on the barren cliff face, he could see down into the Xhalatian settlement and their militia stockade, but there was little he could do about it. The reptilians should not have had the technology to raise this open revolt–they were spacefaring when the Ascendancy encountered them, but only just. The type of weapons they'd used, the sheer organizational capacity, it all was a massive leap simple contact and subjugation should not have inspired on its own. Their own weaponry and ship design was suited to their long, thin-limbed frames, the evolution of it a logical procession, but the weapons they had used to attack the task force bore no resemblance to any of the slugthrowers, low-powered plasma rifles, or unshielded small craft they'd possessed before. As far as he could understand the rituals they were observing, the leaders of the uprising claimed these were gifts from the 'dark gods.'

Dark, certainly. Gods? Even if he had believed in such things, certainly not.

Oddly he found himself wishing for a conversation with the human, Aleishia, and even at times had the absurd thought of asking his dream-Lisetha to send her servant-cum-master to try and find them. Not only might the mystic have a better chance of finding their wreck site, she had direct experience of these 'dark gods', he suspected. The dark ones, the outsiders, the ones who were producing and supplying to races like the Xhalat the strange weaponry and powerful ships. She had lost her mate to them, and he suspected a child as well, though she never spoke of such things to him and Lisetha was discrete on her friend's behalf. It was one subject on which they could agree without hesitation–there was a festering poison seeping through the quadrant, something with sophisticated weapons and a plan for instability and conquest.

More critically, this enemy was patient. Patient was always more dangerous than swift. And so much more difficult to counter.

He heard a step on the rock outside his makeshift headquarters and automatically, his hand went to his sidearm. But it sounded like a Chiss footfall, not the scrabbling step of one of the natives and in any case, it was unlikely any would have made it past the perimeter and into their camp. Still, he left his hand on the grip of the weapon until there was a slight cough, feminine, at the door, and a voice said, "Commander, sir?"

"Enter." He knew the voice. Kest'il'iserae, one of the younger crew, allied to the Eighth Family. A navigator, and one of the least-equipped for ground combat. She was young and had not been in service long enough to be inured to the sort of constant low-level tension and stress a ground-combat survival situation entailed, and he'd been careful to see that she and the survivors in a similar position were kept as much as possible to rear-guard duties. Never on sentry alone, not sent on scouting forays. They could not avoid the violence forever, but if it came to an open fight, best to leave those trained for such things in the vanguard.

She looked around the barrier first, eyes wide and purplish-dark circles visible beneath them. Her hair was cut in the short bob most young female crew wore, and as with all of them it was starting to look unkempt and losing the bright sheen of health and normal grooming. Bathing, of course, was a luxury they lacked here–cold washes in stream water was no substitute. "I am sorry to interrupt, Commander."

"You did not interrupt anything important. What is it, crewman?"

She shifted uneasily from foot to foot, her eyes darting back over her shoulder. "It seems quiet tonight, sir. No noise from the enemy, I mean."

"Not so far, no." He waited before becoming impatient. She was young, and these were unusual circumstances.

"Good. I mean, that's good, sir." She looked back out again. "We haven't made as much progress on the transmitter array as we should have, sir. This crewman apologizes."

The cadet-like deference was admirable, but also irritating in a way. "Progress is being made, crewman. No apologies are necessary." Of course he wished it were repaired, but wishing would accomplish nothing. "Was there something in particular you wished to bring to my attention?"

She ducked her head, her bobbed hair sweeping down across her face, and her eyes flicked up, looking at him from beneath her lashes. If he had found diffident, self-effacing women attractive the effect would have been rather fetching. "Only, Commander . . . the night being so quiet, some of the crew have opted for . . . recreation."

It took him a moment to realize what she meant. "I see." In mixed crews, casual relationships were not unheard of, and to a degree encouraged, as it did relieve tensions. Provided necessary precautions were taken, there was little harm in it. In situations such as this, purely sexual encounters were often one of the few ways crew had to find some form of entertainment. Why she felt he needed to be informed, however, he could not see. "Was there someone who was inappropriately insistent about your participation, crewman?" That would be a problem he would address, and swiftly.

"Oh, no, sir!" The surprise and denial certainly seemed genuine. "I only thought . . . well . . . ." She looked down again, and he suspected that diffidence wasn't feigned. "You are alone, sir."

It took him another long moment before the meaning clicked. Oh. _Oh_.

The worst part was, some primitive part of his brain was slightly tempted. She wasn't uncomely, like all crew of the Expansionary Defensive Fleet she was fit, though she was still aesthetically shapely. And it had, after all, been months now. But she was not Lisetha, and as that was the case it would be very little more than basic physical exercise for him if he could truly muster up the enthusiasm required.

Then he saw, truly saw, the look in her eyes. And paused.

That was not the sharp, calculating look of someone seeking a few moment' s relaxation with fellow crew. That was a quiet, fearful, adoring gaze that promised not only an enthusiastic partner, but an infatuated one after the act was over. He didn't flatter himself that his looks were so remarkable, but he was also not foolishly modest. His personality inspired some sort of devotion in people. He was a good leader, perhaps better than good, and it was easy for that sort of loyalty to quickly transition to romantic attachment.

And very easy for a commander to manipulate that attachment.

He turned back to the report he'd been compiling-another entry in a log that might never be read, but if it were found, even if they all perished, there would be a record. "A commander is often alone, crewman," he said calmly, hoping it would be recognized for the dismissal it was.

"I only mean . . . you don't have to be." Apparently not.

Thrawn kept his face as impassive as usual–no matter what the circumstances, it did not do to let the lower ranks see a commander emoting. Instead he stared at her for a long moment, keeping his expression perfectly impassive. "In many ways, a commander is always alone, crewman. We are among our crew, we lead our crew, but we are not of our crew. Consider, Crewman Kest'il'iserae, a commander who acted as simply one of the crew-drank with them openly, dallied with those he favored, chose a second enamored of him rather than one who trusts him. How long would such a unit remain stable?"

He saw the conflict in her expression and that alone confirmed it was a bad idea. If nothing else, she was too young, too sensitive yet, to know the difference between casual relief and genuine affection. "I suppose . . . it would be highly unstable, sir. The crew would compete amongst themselves for the commander's favor by personal means, not through excelling at their duties."

"And if the commander had a mission, one that required a particular crew member to risk themselves? Or even die? If he felt anything other than paternal regard for them, or comradeship, could he risk them without second-guessing himself?"

She was thinking about it. Good. "No, I don't suppose he could, Commander."

"Could he trust the word of his subordinates, if he were never sure whether they spoke out of genuine conviction or out of romantic affection?"

"No, sir." She sounded more surprised than disappointed and he allowed himself just the faintest inner sigh of relief. "And it would likely cloud the judgement of those subordinates as well."

"Precisely, crewman." And he favored her with a small smile. "Loyalty is a virtue. Pathological devotion is a vice, and not one to be prized in officers and crew of the Defense Force."

"Yes, sir," and she lowered her gaze. "I apologize if I offended you, Commander."

"Offended? I'm flattered, crewman. But even if I were not your superior officer, I am also quite happily married. I fully intend to return to my wife as quickly as possible, and I would not wish to cause her further pain with what might be viewed as a betrayal. Especially," and some instinct told him it was the kind of news the crew might like to know, "as she is expecting our first child."

The way she abruptly brightened, the embarrassment forgotten, told him his instincts had once again been correct. "Your firstborn? Congratulations, sir. I had no idea and would never have–"

He waved away the resumed apology. "As I said, there is no offense taken. And I only found out about our child days before this deployment. If we were to return on schedule, the baby would likely have been born in my absence. As it is, I am not certain when I will meet this daughter. Or son." Strange, to take his own dream's assurances it was a daughter with such conviction.

"I hope it will be sooner rather than later, sir." The smile seemed genuine enough. "I think the crew would be pleased to hear that, sir."

"It is not something I intentionally kept secret, so if you wish to mention it, you may feel free to do so." Am I really thinking of their state of mind? Or do I hope their motivation will be higher, if they think they are going to help me reunite with my family? Should they even care? He shrugged aside the guilty thought. If it improved efficiency and determination, then it was all to the good.

And if it brought him home even a moment sooner, all the better.


	15. Arrivals and Departures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: No Thrawn in this chapter, but one character makes a dramatic exit, while another makes a big entrance.

 

Lisetha knew that part of her growing discomfort with Council meetings was simply physical. Her back ached, and there was no dignified position she could sit in that relieved the pressure on what felt like every internal organ. Bad enough when it was just her bladder, which apparently had shrunk to the size of a bean and constantly made demands on her time, getting an unexpected kick. Now it seemed she couldn't adjust her posture without a tiny heel driving into her diaphragm or a miniature head-butt to the abdominal muscles.

_I do love you, little one, but at times, you're decidedly uncomfortable._  Not for the first time, she felt a curious response to her mental touch and had to bite down on a smile. Never fearful, her little one, increasingly curious of each new mental contact and so bright with the Force Lisetha could have wept.  _You're going to have the best of both of us, my dear one, and when he meets you your father will be so proud of you._

The display at the center of the Council chamber was illuminated. Travel routes, something to do with inaccurate beacons, and more than one protectorate had apparently complained. The lower house of government had passed matters through committee, but any assignment of Defense Force resources would require Council consent. Lisetha knew that the other reason she was uneasy today was those tampered beacons certainly sounded like the same sort of disturbance Aleishia and Serhal had discovered on their scouting expedition.

The one they'd taken immediately after the wedding, when Thrawn had been here and safe with her, before he'd been torn away . . . .

She grimaced, and forced the thought from her mind. That was one more worry she didn't need at the moment. For now, she couldn't even afford to worry about Thrawn specifically, though the search was not progressing nearly enough for her taste. The changed hyperspace lanes were not an accident. They could not be an accident. But that was exactly what Orkeli was pushing to treat them as.

"This is troublesome, but hardly a crisis." Orkeli gestured dismissively to the projection. "A certain amount of drift is to be expected. These complaints are merely an attempt by these systems to divert resources from our primary systems for their own worlds' gain."

"That  _is_ what we imply when we designate them protectorates, is it not?" Lisetha said, wishing she didn't sound so tired, but her back was working itself into a solid knot. "They do not exist for us to drain them and leave them to their own devices. Ships are being delayed and diverted, if our transit beacons are out of alignment it is our obligation to repair them before further damage is done."

"There is no need for another of your sermons," Pherek said, his voice so brittle she thought it would crack. "Your obsession with the protectorates has already cost the Council enough time and the Ascendancy enough resources. Including your unlamented husband."

"The Fourth Councilor is out of order," Rifenlas said, with a sideways look at Lisetha. She knew her cheeks were likely glowing with the flush of repressed anger, but she made the slightest shake of her head. Let her grandfather rant.

"I am surprised you count him among our resources," she retorted, and fought down a wince as what felt like a kick from a surprisingly-strong heel drove up into her gut.  _Little one, you are not helping._  "And I will lament when my husband is dead, not before. But so long as he is not here to defend himself, I will not listen to you defame him. Especially as you are only doing it to cloud the issue. One beacon out of alignment is a mishap. Two is carelessness. Three is a pattern we cannot ignore."

"Navigational control is a matter for the shipping fleets and the Defense Force, not the High Council." Pherek interrupted himself with a cough. "This pursuit of phantom threats is merely a distraction and an attempt to garner more power to the Defence Force. I'm surprised you bother at this point as your husband can no longer benefit from it."

Lisetha gritted her teeth, only partially because of the clenching muscles in her back that clearly thought she didn't need this sort of stress at the moment. "If the Fourth Councilor has nothing but baseless slander to add to the discussion, then I suggest he refrain from comment."

"Such a tone to take with your own blood," Pherek rasped, blatantly ignoring her use of the formal third person and just as blatantly using the condescending address of an elder to a younger, not the appropriate mode for a superior or even the everyday fiction of equality normally used in Council. "Perhaps you should consider if your own misfortune is the result of your reckless and willful misuse of Council resources."

Lisetha felt the heat rush to her face, and had to draw in a deep breath as her whole body tensed. "When last I looked, the use of Council resources required consent of a majority. Perhaps the Fourth Councilor should consider how it appears that he and the Sixth consistently object to any investigation of anomalous activity which might be detrimental to workers and civilians."

"I object to this slander," Orkeli said. "And to the Second Councilor's taking such a tone with the Fourth. Her own grandfather–"

"Which is not relevant in this chamber," Rifenlas interrupted. "Second Councilor, if you wish to object–"

"The Fourth Councilor is ill," a feeling she was not unfamiliar with, and Lisetha dug her nails into the arms of her chair. "I will overlook his tone in deference to his age, but I urge the Council to commission the Defense Force to oversee restoration of the hyperspace beacons, and I request that such missions include secondary recording devices accessible only to designated officials so that all reports may be confirmed by multiple sources, to prevent accusations of Defense Force tampering."

"Nonsense!" Pherek was flushed disturbingly bright. "The normal maintenance does not require Council oversight. This is a further waste of time."

"Normal maintenance would not be required on multiple beacons at once," Lisetha countered, keeping her tone as level as she could. "I begin to wonder at the Fourth Councilor's reluctance to admit to the evidence of–"

"Of what?" Pherek rasped, shoving himself to his feet. "Evidence the Defense Force cannot manage its own affairs? Of the downward technological slide of our people? The Second produces nothing but its outdated war machines, the Seventh is merely their toady–"

Now the Seventh Councilor had risen almost as fast as Lisetha, and Rifenlas was demanding "The Fourth Councilor will silence himself–"

"I will not!" Pherek stepped down to the floor, despite not having asked or been invited to do so. "This Council, the parliament, indeed the Hierarchy have been twisted for too long." In spite of the words, Lisetha was alarmed at the bright glow of his skin's heat, too hot for even normal anger. "The Defense Force serves the Council, or it did, until this young class of officers with no respect or breeding came up. No honor for tradition or blood. Beacons? What do beacons matter when we're losing ourselves with lowborn syndics with power like a noble's or the daughter of a High Family carrying a baseborn soldier's bastard as her only heir? Marriage in hand, hah!"

Lisetha knew her face must be flaming now too, and a rush of energy in the Force prickled with a sharp edge she had never felt before. "I will no longer hear this," she said, but even with her fingers digging into the arms of her chair she wavered on her feet as her daughter delivered a distressed blow to her gut from within.  _Hush, little one! It's only your great-grandfather trying to make me angry._

"The Fourth Councilor insults the honor of my Family and my granddaughter-in-law the Second Councilor!" Thaenil's eyes glittered bright with anger.

Rifenlas was on his feet and the fasces were in his hand, making even Lisetha pause. Placing them in front of Pherek would be a command, not a request, that the Fourth Councilor be silent on penalty of removal from the Council Chamber. In spite of herself Lisetha felt a flush of alarm for her grandfather. "The Fourth Councilor is formally warned," Rifenlas said. "This attack on a fellow Councilor will cease on penalty of censure."

"My 'fellow Councilor' has disgraced her family!" There was a piercing note more of regret than anger to Pherek's voice. "And now she wishes to shame the entire Council, dragging us on a chase for phantoms. Why not admit your plan? You and your husband will be the death of our people!"

Lisetha felt her daughter kick again, as if protesting. With it came that prickling unfamiliar sense of the Force, a flush of certainty. "No," she murmured. "No, he will save us. From ourselves."

"The Fourth Councilor will seat himself on pain of removal!" Rifenlas said, raising his voice.

Pherek looked as if he was going to object. Then he leaned back, reaching for the arms of his chair to brace himself and sit.

And missed. He grabbed for the seat as he slipped, but he had gone chalk-pale, cold, and there was a sudden blankness in his eyes.

Lisetha's hands flew to her mouth, stifling a cry of alarm. Formbi was lunging from his seat to Pherek's right and Orkeli was moving as well. She could hear Rifenlas, his voice raised above the din, calling for medics and for Asp'ier'ikadre, other voices, but it was muffled through the blood pounding in her ears. From somewhere behind her, she felt Serhal moving, hurrying to support her, but suddenly all her attention was on the surge of alarm, within her but not of her, and the sharp stabs of feet and tiny fists.  _It's all right, it's all right, hush, little one. You're safe, we're safe, only something's wrong with Grandfather._

There was a moment's confusion, and the sensation of relief and even as she pressed that loving, welcoming sense around her daughter, the tiny mind reached back, and Lisetha felt the odd sensation of a tiny hand patting hers. Even in the commotion, she was stunned–comforting, her daughter was trying, somehow, to comfort  _her_. She understood that Lisetha was alarmed and had learned from being consoled herself . . .  _Oh, little one, you will be something special. Your father will be so proud of you._

The sound of running steps and a new disturbance forced her attention back to the present, external world. The medics had arrived and were kneeling beside Pherek, but Lisetha felt a blankness, a cold chill that wouldn't dissipate. She couldn't see her grandfather's face, but his hand was curled beside him, and it was already pallid, less blue than milky white.

She realized Serhal was holding her by the shoulders, trying to guide her back to her chair. "My lady, you need to sit down. Your condition–"

"We are all right," she interrupted, though her voice was weaker than she'd have liked. "I need to inform Mother. Uncle Pierik will need the whole Council . . . ."  _I must not think that my grandfather's last words were to slander me and my husband. I must not be angry. I must think of my family and the Council. I must think of the situation._

She realized Orkeli had stepped back and was looking at her. She saw no judgement or hostility, but something prompted her hand to drift low, protective, the closest she could come as yet to placing herself between her daughter and a threat.

One of the medics rose, and spoke quietly to Rifenlas. Lisetha saw some of the blood drain from the First Councilor's features, but she knew already, before he spoke. "High Councilor Ahp'her'ekadre is dead."

There was a quick, stifled, sound from the entrance to the chamber, and Lisetha realized with a sinking feeling her uncle was standing there, staring without comprehension at the scene before him. He had clearly come straight from his father's offices–his offices now, Lisetha realized, with an echo of the utter confusion she'd felt on realizing that what she'd considered Lanhar's was now hers–and for once his expression was unguarded. She took a step forward, but Orkeli and Formbi moved between them, speaking quickly and quietly. She saw her uncle draw a deep breath, but then Rifenlas approached her.

"Lisetha, Pierik will be occupied here for some time," he said quietly. "Council is of course suspended until further notice. It might be best if you were to inform Lady Als'ele'kadre as I believe she is staying with you?"

"Yes, during my indisposition," she said, hearing how faint her own voice was. "Oh, she won't take this well, not so soon after Father."

"Barely two years," Rifenlas said quietly. "And you . . . with your husband . . . ."

She knew he was looking at the absence of mourning bands, and by now she had stopped protesting.  _Thrawn, you must come home, or I'm going to start believing them._ "It has not been a happy time, no," she said. "Though Grandfather has been so ill."

"I am sure . . . ." Rifenlas paused. "I am sure that his illness is what prompted his words today. I hope that you do not hold the words of a sick man against him."

"Of course not."  _I will never un-hear what he said, and I will be sure my daughter never knows that her great-grandfather was a sour old man who called her a bastard practically with his dying breath._ "I should probably go now before Mother finds out some other way. Thank the ancestors Grandfather never re-contracted after his marriage expired. Though I suppose Chaf'ela'sarna will wish to hear as well."

"Leave it to Formbi to tell his aunt," Rifenlas said. His gaze drifted down briefly and then back to her face so quickly she knew he'd realized he was being rude. "Given your condition you must be cautious about stress."

Her back cramped again, as if to reinforce his words. "Yes. But I fear it's unavoidable in these circumstances. If you'll excuse me, then, I will express proper condolences to Councilor-elect Pierik and then go attend to my mother. We will have to help prepare for the funeral rites. I'm sure he'll wish to schedule them soon."

"I will notify the Council when it is time for the induction." One of the medics was approaching, and Rifenlas turned away to speak to him, leaving Lisetha wavering on her feet. She wanted, more than anything, to tell Pierik she understood. She knew the numbness, the sudden realization that not only was a parent gone, you were no longer merely the heir. Pierik, she could see, was not looking at his father's body (obscured by the medics as it was), but his dull, half-sightless gaze kept turning up, to the empty chair of the High Councilor of the Fourth. His chair.

Lisetha knew that feeling all too well. She had at least not had to see her father dead, which if anything made the situation somehow more surreal. Until the investigators had released his remains, though cautioning her that she and her Family might not wish to see them, there had never been a sense of reality. She had thought, almost to the last, that her father would walk through the door and it would all be a horrible mistake. Pierik, at least, did not have that luxury. There was no escape from reality here.

_Is that what you're doing with your husband? Telling yourself that until you see his remains, he cannot be dead?_

Lisetha shoved the thought aside, easy to do given the stabbing pain in her back and the shock of the tableaux before her. Her focus now was her uncle, and then her mother. Her mother would be worse, of course–first Lanhar, now Pherek. Seleka had lost her husband and now her father in far too short a space of time. And Lisetha firmly refused to consider whether or not they shared that in common.

"Uncle." She held out both hands as she approached Pierik. He clasped them, and his fingers felt cold to the touch. "I am so sorry."

He lowered his gaze. "I know that Father has not been as kind as he could have. He only ever had the best interest of our Family at heart. And Second or not, you are still his granddaughter and family."

"I know that."  _I thought I did, but these last months . . . ._  "I wish there had been time for us to mend our relations. And I want you to know, if there is any help I can provide you, you need only ask. I know how difficult such a situation is."

"Thank you, niece. At least, with Father having been so ill, it was not entirely a shock." Pierik was giving her the same sort of look Rifenlas had. "Terl'an'harana was not old or ill. And your husband–"

"Is an officer of the Defense Force," she said, suddenly bone-weary. "Such a role carries risk. Grandfather should have had a long, peaceful old age. Not this."

Pierik's eyes narrowed. "Are you well? You're pale."

"Stress, Uncle, nothing more." And intermittent pain that made standing or sitting an ordeal. "I had best go and tell Mother. I'm sure she'll want to come home and help plan the funeral rites."

"I will want my sister's help, of course, if you can spare her given your condition."

"I am pregnant, not an invalid," she said, not as charitably as she meant. "You and Mother and your Family are a greater concern now."

"If you insist." Pierik looked somewhat relieved, though. Even without all the circumstances drawing attention to her condition was likely more of a breach of etiquette than a bachelor was comfortable with. "Please break the news to Seleka gently, if you can."

"As best I can." He nodded and she turned away as he went back to the medics. There were things he would have to do, unpleasant things. And Lisetha felt heavy and awkward, and suddenly very, very tired. "Serhal, we should go. Gossip is going to spread quickly and I don't want mother finding out that way."

The ground transit home was suitably somber, and Lisetha felt a terrible lethargy settle over her, as if standing again was going to be more than she could manage. She would have, in spite of the situation, tried to sleep even for a few minutes if the tension seizing her weren't so intense. The pain was not so stabbing, but it felt unrelenting now. She was faint and distracted to such an extent she didn't realize they'd arrived until Serhal was offering his hand to assist her out.

Seleka was in the room they'd designated as the nursery, supervising the installation of several pieces of art that were appropriately simple but both instructive and soothing for a young Chiss. Lisetha couldn't even muster up a faint smile at how orderly everything was, or at how Thrawn, if he were here ( _when_ he was here!) would undoubtedly rearrange everything to some order only he could comprehend. She wondered if he'd appreciate the soft touches of gray throughout, too. Seleka had pursed her lips but said nothing at the choice, and Lisetha had only smiled to herself. If her mother thought that was too great a concession to the Eighth side of her baby's family, she'd be absolutely mortified soon enough.

Now, though, Lisetha pushed the thoughts aside. "Mother." Her voice was softer than she intended and she felt even more tired, as if that were possible.

"Lisetha, I had thought you were in Council," Seleka said. "Over so soon?" From the direction of her gaze, quickly averted, she obviously wondered if the issue was Lisetha's own condition.

_If only..._ "The Council was forced to an emergency dismissal." She braced herself. There was no easy way, only the proper way. "I am sorry to tell you . . . Ahp'her'ekadre is dead. He suffered a collapse while addressing the Council."  _While Rifenlas raised the fasces against him, while berating his great-grandchild as a bastard, his grandson-in-law as a lowborn destroyer, his granddaughter as a common slag._ "I'm sorry, Mother."

Seleka's complexion grayed, even as she reached out numbly and clasped her daughter's outstretched hands. "He had been ill, but I thought . . . hoped . . . ."

_Hoped not to lose anyone else so soon._  "Uncle Pierik thought you would want to go home. To help . . . prepare for the rites."

"Of course," and her mother sounded faint, brittle, suddenly very old. "Of course, without a wife, and with your . . .with Lorkad only recently contracted, there are so few to attend to things. But, Lisetha, you–"

"–Have Ser'halis and Aleishia and all the rest of the household, and Kelah if you don't need her more," Lisetha said, "and Mitth'ras'saffis, if no one else from Thrawn's family, if someone other than the medics has to dance attendance on me any time soon. You are needed. Uncle Pierik will need all the support he can come by now. I know."

Seleka blinked, and not for the first time seemed to see her daughter in a strange light. "I forget again . . . you are High Councilor, as he is now. But if you need me, daughter, don't hesitate to summon me."

"Of course. Now, go. Your Family needs you." Lisetha felt an odd sense of detachment as her mother left. Her mother's Family. Not hers, not really. Her Family, in every sense of the word, was here now, minus one member who  _would_  be home, soon, somehow, if she had to go herself to find him.

There was another sharp twinge, and she rested her hand on the curve of her abdomen. "Not yet, of course not, little one. Not before you're safe here with me." Apparently that was not as reassuring as she'd hoped as there was another spasm and a sense of urgency from the tiny mind.

"Apprentice?" Aleishia was standing in the door. Lisetha hadn't even heard her approach, which spoke volumes to her mental state. "Serhal told me what happened. Are you all right?"

"I am fine," Lisetha sighed, not even bothering to try and conceal her real feelings. "As much as I can be. Grandfather cannot take back his words now. And I cannot change what happened. Mother and Uncle Pierik will need my support now, that's all."

"I was not speaking of the unfortunate situation with your grandfather," Aleishia said. "Be mindful of yourself."

"I am perfectly mindful, thank you,"she snapped, willing her back to relax.

"Indeed?" Aleishia had removed her veil, and was staring at her apprentice with that hard, fixed look made more disconcerting by the dark, lightless eyes. "Are you really?"

Lisetha opened her mouth to snap back and instead caught her breath as another knifing pain stabbed her back. She felt the simultaneous flare of alarm from the baby, and couldn't even think of consoling her as she was suddenly gripped by the same weight of dread and a sense of a terrible onrushing  _something_  that she couldn't stop.

Oh.

_Oh._

She took a deep breath, trying to force down a sudden rising alarm and an absurd desire to call her mother back, now. "The medics had assumed it would not be for at least three or four weeks."

"Babies have been known to have their own sense of timing," Aleishia said, and if she felt any regret or grief from the source of that knowledge, she didn't let any hint show. Impassive as a Chiss, even. "And you have been experiencing abnormal stress. Shall I call for Serhal?"

"Tell him that I require transport to the medical center." Lisetha was unreasoningly proud of how calm she kept her voice. "He will know what it means."

"And your family?" Aleishia's tone, and her sense in the Force, was respectfully soft.

Lisetha opened her mouth to answer, but once again was cut off by a deep breath and another clenching pain. "I don't believe we should bother Mother at this time. She's had enough trauma for one day. The medics are extremely competent. I will be fine."

She was not at all certain, once she was in the birthing theater, with two quietly competent medics attending her, that she had been telling the truth. The medical center was of course fitted with the most advanced technology available and the medics were highly trained, and Lisetha still found herself fighting an oppressive sense of dread. It was irrational, she knew–the sense of onrushing change was only logical, after all. She was in labor, about to give birth. It was a natural but profound event.

And of course, it wasn't only her fear she was feeling. There was another flash of alarm from the baby, the uncomprehending fear of the unknown and the suddenly inexorable forces driving her towards it.  _It's all right, little one,_ she thought, even as another rippling pain made her draw a deep breath and bite down on a cry.  _Soon. It'll be over soon and you'll be with me._

That did not seem to reassure the baby, but Lisetha felt her seem to draw in on herself, steadying herself–thinking. Processing. Clinging to Lisetha's words and sense in the Force and using them to focus on something other than the world-altering terror around her.

"The fetal heart rate is slightly higher than nominal," one of the medics said, studying a monitor, "but within safe ranges thus far. Your own pulse and respiration are within acceptable limits, Aristocra."

"Will it be much longer?" She resisted the urge to try and read the monitors herself. She was not a medic, and they would tell her very little she could correctly interpret. Another spasm came, and she bit her lip, fingers grasping the sides of the examination chair. The thin white medical shift she wore had seemed too thin, but suddenly she felt uncomfortably flushed.

The medic turned and, far too slowly for Lisetha's taste, studied several different readouts, and made a few adjustments to the sensors. She felt a tingle under one of the medicine-release patches and a slight easing of the strain on her back. "Fetal heart rate is dropping. Please attempt to relax and breathe evenly, Aristocra."

_Relax, little one. This is natural, this is normal._ "I am attempting to relax. Is my daughter all right?" Another clenching, another overwhelming sense of dread.  _It will be all right. Soon!_

One of the medics did not even turn away from the monitors. The other made a final check of some readout and came back to her side. "The infant is smaller than we would prefer for delivery, and her heart rate has been unstable. We would ordinarily have attempted to delay labor, with due consideration for the inconvenience of bed rest for a High Councilor, but as the situation has already progressed, the most optimal procedure is for delivery to continue."

"That was not the question I asked," Lisetha said, then gritted her teeth. The pain relief was working, but it was almost worse as it now felt as if her muscles were contracting under some outside influence.

The medic blinked. "The fetal heart rate is fluctuating more than normal but is still within acceptable limits. We will of course have to take certain extra precautions as four weeks in advance of the projected due dates means the weight and potentially lung and immune development are not optimal. But at this time there is no immediate cause for concern. Now, please, Aristocra, sit back, and breathe calmly. The contractions will become stronger and resisting them will cause undue stress."

"Stronger?" She felt another odd sensation from the medicine-release patch. It almost distracted her from the distinct sense in the Force that the medic was not being entirely forthcoming.

"As the fetal heart rate is slowing, it would be best to encourage labor progression, so we are doing so," said the other medic. "Now, please, Aristocra, relax."

Abruptly that was almost impossible. In some part of her mind Lisetha was aware that there was pain, but the drugs were damping down her ability to care. Her entire body was clenching, and there was nothing she could do to stop it or relieve the terrifying pressure. She tried to cling to some stability in the Force, to reassure herself that this was right and natural, the medics would not lie if there was something wrong, but her own fear and the baby's flared and she had a sudden, desperate need for comfort.  _Thrawn, why are you not here?_  It was a futile thought, and he would not have been permitted in the room in any case as his presence served no medical purpose, but even just outside the door . . . it was wishful thinking, but for an instant she could have sworn she felt his sense in the Force, far away but strong and real as if he were near.

"Breathe, Aristocra," the first medic said, moving to the base of the table. "The rest between contractions will be much shorter now." The second said something, and there was another change from the medicine patch. Dimly, she was aware that someone else had entered the room, another medic, but her whole body seemed to knot itself and the medicine was no longer quite enough to block the pain. She was not going to scream–she was Aristocra, she was a high Councilor, she was  _Chiss_ , they did not let things like pain reduce them to screaming–but the baby suddenly gave a flare of disoriented terror and she focused on that.  _I'm here, little one!_

She sensed, distantly, another mental presence–Aleishia, nearby, with a solid, understanding reassurance:  _the Force is with you. And the baby. We are here and everything will be all right._

_Thrawn . . .why aren't you here?_

The pain and pressure came again and she fought the urge to clench her entire body in an effort to stop it, and then it was gone, and for a panicked moment her sense of her daughter was gone as well. Her entire body sagged, all her strength gone, and a new sensation of utter lethargy seeped through her. As it did, her mind drifted, and once again she sensed her daughter, only farther away than she'd ever been before and cold and frightened and utterly confused. "My daughter," and she had never had so much trouble, taken so much energy, to even raise her head and speak. "Let me see her!"

"Patience, Aristocra." The medic did not turn away and he blocked her view of the examination table. The third medic was with him, and she could see they were working on her daughter, weighing and measuring and wiping away the fluids and filth of the birth. Lisetha barely noticed the other medic tending to her, desperate as she was to get some glimpse of her daughter. Thrawn's daughter.  _Their_  firstborn.  _Little one, you have to respond,_  she thought, reaching out with the same embracing sense of arms enfolding.  _You must cry out. Don't be afraid. They want to make sure you're all right and then you can be with me._

The medics were speaking quietly, deliberately too much so for her to hear. She did hear the sound of water pouring. Even in their sterile, perfect, medical environment some things were still half-superstition. A child had to be washed in Csilla's glacial meltwater, and while she knew it was mostly that a normal, healthy infant would indicate their health by screaming, it was also, in some way, the most fitting introduction to their world.

The squalling shriek was the most musical sound she'd ever heard, and Lisetha would have sworn there was a note of indignant offense to it. The medics' senses in the Force relaxed just the faintest bit, and she saw them moving just a bit slower. Her daughter gave another, smaller cry and Lisetha knew they'd taken the important blood sample, one that would be matched to her own and Thrawn's and permanently recorded in the Archives with the child's parentage and birth rank. Once she was Named, that would be added to the record, which would be amended in future for any changes–Thrawn's would have his birth name, the addendum of his formal adoption to the Eighth. Lisetha's own had been set at her Naming, her record now amended to reflect her marriage for life. Now it would be linked to her daughter's, now that her baby had shown enough strength that she would live without extreme measures.

_Not that I would have allowed it,_  Lisetha realized, with a sick lurch, the adrenaline rush of a dangerous blow dodged. If they had said her child was defective, or too weak to care for, she would have fought tooth and nail, and the void take the laws. This was  _her_  child, hers and Thrawn's, and she knew with a perfect clarity that she would do anything she had to do to protect her.  _Fight for you, sacrifice anything for you, die for you if I must, little one. I swear, as long as it's within my power, I will never let harm come to you._

The medic had eased her examination chair to a lower angle, a more comfortable resting position, and while she was exhausted and the urge to doze was almost overpowering, she fought upright. "Let me hold her."

"The infant will need time in an incubation chamber," one of the medics said. The other was holding the baby, wrapped in a soft, sterile white blanket. Lisetha could see a tiny blue fist, clenched tight, work its way free of the wrapping, and felt a surge of desperation. "She is a kilogram smaller than optimal and while lung function appears unimpeded we would prefer to keep her in controlled conditions to assure proper development."

"I want to hold my daughter  _now_ ," and for once she was deeply grateful for the Aristocra's ability to infuse her words with absolute authority.  _Aleishia, send Serhal in!_ "You will take her, with my guard present,  _after_  I have held her and seen for myself she's all right. My guard captain will then remain with her until she is released to my custody."

The medic hesitated, and Lisetha glared, fighting the urge to reach out with the Force and turn his mind to her will. It would be so easy, and that was  _her daughter_  they had. There was a hiss of the theater door opening and she sensed Serhal's presence behind her, solid and cool as always. The medics looked from him to her and finally the one holding her daughter moved forward.

Lisetha almost snatched the tiny bundle from her arms. The tiny face that blinked up at her was pale, but the blue would deepen from milky to azure with time. There was no true glow from the tiny eyes, either, but that too would come. She'd managed to twist both hands free of the medic's careful swaddling and was waving them, as if she had been restrained long enough and now wanted to test this freedom to move. That sense was still there, farther away, but Lisetha could feel her shining in the Force, warmth and light and strength. She knew it was an illusion–infants couldn't focus on anything clearly so soon after birth–but she would have sworn her daughter was trying to look at her, the tiny, faintly-red eyes attempting to fix on the face that went with a familiar mind.

"Hello, little one. I'm your mother," Lisetha whispered, forgetting everyone and everything else but the tiny life looking back at her. Everything but Thrawn . . .  _you should be here, heart's-half._  She caught the faintly puzzled sense from her daughter and smiled.  _Your father,_  and she pictured Thrawn as clearly as she could,  _he'll be here soon to meet you, I promise._  She could feel her daughter turning the image over, grasping the feelings if not their meaning yet.  _Yes, we both love you very much,_  she impressed on her _, and we'll be together, soon._

She kept her arms tight around her daughter as long as they would allow, her focus laser-tight, but then she felt another mind, nearby and with the same certainty couched in a power that made her shiver in spite of herself. Sometimes, she forgot what it meant that Aleishia was a Jedi.  _Yes, apprentice,_  Aleishia said.  _He'll be home with you both. Because I'm going to find him._


	16. Last Stands and Dead Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so I procrastinate. Plus, I have the cold of death, and every time I think I'm going to write I'm snowed in or sick or we're going shopping or an emergency vet call goes very badly indeed. (I've had two of those in the last three weeks. The duck named Duck is fine. The goat, sadly, was not.) Maybe I just needed the inspiration of a dark gritty western (if you like that sort of thing and want to see Mads Mikkelsen actually not die in a movie, I give "The Salvation" two thumbs up) and a gritty non-linear war movie (I also give "Dunkirk" two thumbs up and I'm not crying, it's those onion-cutting ninjas again.) And don't worry, I've got plenty of resistance, one-man stands, and political intrigue from some other Christmas presents when I get back to Resurrection ("Flamen og Citronen" for some Nazi-battling with surprising gray areas, and "Kongekabele" for politics. Both featuring characters with voices that should keep me in a Thrawn-related mood.)

 

Aleishia dropped into the cockpit of the small fighter, trying to remind herself of the serious situation and suppressing a very un-Jedi-like rush of excitement. The loose tunic with its sash and familiar cut, the soft boots, the weight of the lightsaber at her belt . . . this felt right and good, as if she'd slipped back into an old, familiar skin.

Of course, there was a difference . . . she turned her head so she could see Serhal, watching from the hangar door. He was supposed to be making sure no one else walked in and saw her, but he was staring at her and even at distance she could feel the concern and disapproval radiating from him, and she was fairly sure it was not because he'd be short one pair of hands dealing with Lisetha and the new little lady. Thellie, they were calling her for now–another Chiss rule that the baby would not have a full name yet, though something in Lady Seleka's reaction made Aleishia wondered if the baby name were somehow a hint, and that "Grandmother" did not approve of what she suspected.

She pushed aside any residual guilt-Lisetha had her mother, cloaked in mourning as she was, her sister, Seln (who seemed as enamored of his new little lady as he was of her mother), Serhal, and even Syndic Mitth'ras'saffis. Though to say Thrawn's brother had looked more than a little uneasy when his niece was placed in his arms was a polite understatement. He looked, and in the Force felt, torn between a kind of happiness that almost made him uncomfortable and genuine discomfort at being handed something so tiny and fragile-looking. Of course, if he'd been subjected to Little Lady Thellie's considerable set of lungs he might have revised the 'fragile' assumption.

And, of course, the nagging sense Aleishia had the first moment she held the infant that somewhere in that tiny form was a Force potential as great as her mother's. For the first time in a long, long while she wished for the resources of the Temple, or at least one test kit. Of course, if the baby had the midichlorian count she suspected, then involvement with the Temple was the last thing she'd want. Lisetha would never stand for her child being ripped away, or even entertain the offer. To say nothing of what the baby's father would think of the whole business . . .

Aleishia shook off the thought. The Jedi were not something she had to worry about at this end of the galaxy. Thrawn, on the other hand, was her only principle concern. Kicking the thrusters up, she launched the fighter with probably more speed than was necessary, and immediately throttled back as she entered the complex tunnel system leading to Csilla's surface. The last thing she needed was to draw the close attention of traffic control. The Second Family crest ought to minimize any interference, but reckless flying was frowned upon and gathered attention. Right now, she simply needed to get clear of the atmosphere and make a clean jump on a trajectory suggesting she was merely carrying out an errand for her mistress. After that . . . .

_Focus now, search later._  She listened with half an ear for the acknowledgment from the monitor station, and then activated the hyperdrive. Chiss drive systems and navicomputers were not quite the same as those she'd learned in the Republic, but not needing the drive ring or an astromech was certainly convenient and the ship could have given the Republic's best starfighters a run for their credits. It was not especially comfortable, even by the Jedi's aesthetic standards, but she'd grown accustomed to the Chiss's stern asceticism.

_So why are you so lost in memory now?_

The baby, in part. Her own daughter, long-lost, had not been as tiny as the pale little creature cradled in Lisetha's arms. And of course, blue skin, even just the faint trace, in a human child would be cause for alarm. In a Chiss it was normal, and little Thellie was apparently healthy as anyone could hope for given her early arrival into the world.

"Tiny, but perfect." Lisetha sounded like Aleishia suspected every mother since time immemorial had with a new baby. "She looks like her father, don't you think?"

Aleishia studied the tiny, milk-blue face framed by the swaddling blankets. "A bit around the mouth, yes. She'll be stubborn like him." She wondered where that superstition had arisen from–she had no conscious memory of parents cooing over her, she had spent little time in the creche at the Temple, and there had been no time–she shut off the memory. "I think she has your eyes, though."

"Perhaps." Lisetha was still smiling down at her daughter. "Thrawn will be so happy."

Aleishia flinched in spite of herself and ignored the flicker of doubt she saw cross Serhal's face. He did not believe, but he would never have been so cruel as to say it where his lady could hear. "He will. And soon." She glanced up at Serhal again, but the guard was deliberately looking away. "All is prepared. If you are certain you don't need me here, then I can leave at any time."

Lisetha looked up, and the besotted new mother fell away in an instant. "You have the data chip with all the information I could gather on their last known coordinates, including everything Thrass could give me. And there is a communications code–let Thrawn use it when you find him, the Defense Force  _will_  come. You're sure you don't want anyone with you, though? I can spare Ser'halis, if I must."

"I am more than capable of taking care of myself, and especially after the stay in the medical center, Serhal's absence would be noticed." That was putting it mildly. Lisetha had tolerated, briefly, the medics' insistence that her daughter needed time in the neonatal unit until her weight and lung function were determined to be 'optimal', but she had insisted that either she or Serhal remain in attendance at all times. Aleishia suspected the baby's early release from medical custody was mostly the medical center staff, with the typical Chiss craving for order, decided any risk to the baby was minimal compared to the disruption her presence was causing everyone else.

Lisetha would be fine. Even distracted by her own Family's loss and Pierik's ascension to the Council, Seleka was focused on her new granddaughter and her daughter with an intensity Aleishia found both touching and a trace off-putting. Somewhere deep in her psyche, the resistance to- _no, be honest, fear of_ –attachment had been deeply ingrained. Of course there was far more than sentiment going on. This child was the heir to the Second Family, a tiny single point at the tip of a family tree. Even if everyone except the new mother weren't convinced the baby's father was dead, she'd be the focus of all attention.

An ideal cover for even the most devoted servant to vanish for a bit. If she played her cards right then between the fixation on little Thellie now, and the immense fuss that would surround the completion of her mission, no one would notice her absence at all.

The fighter dropped out of hyperspace long enough for her to adjust the coordinates. The jump to the Xhalat system would give her enough time to meditate, to open her mind to the living Force, and to search out the missing task force's survivors. And whatever was hunting them.

Thrawn would not, could not, show it to his remaining crew, but he was beginning to think that no one was coming. That if they could not repair their own ship (doubtful) or steal something functional from the Xhalat (slightly more feasible, but less likely by the day) they would be trapped here until they were picked off, one by one, as they were already being picked off. He remembered names, of course. He would have messages of regret for their families if ( _when!_ ) they returned. But he was beginning to have to force himself to think 'when'.

Lisetha would not have abandoned them willingly. Thrass would not have given up. That meant they were being prevented from acting. Of course, in Lisetha's case, it was possible that there was something else, something with the baby, forcibly occupying her time. Should she have given birth by now? He wasn't sure. He was, unavoidably, becoming attuned to the day and night rhythms of this planet, and that meant they had been here too long.

He wasn't even dreaming of her any more.

"Commander?"

Thrawn shook himself out of his reverie. "Yes, Ensign?" He turned, drawing himself up with as much dignity as the ragged, repaired uniform permitted. If there was anything petty he craved from home, it was a clean, new, crisp uniform to perfect Defense Force standards.

The young officer looked twice his years. "Sir, the forward picket reports enemy activity on the south face of the ravine."

Picket, not pickets. They couldn't afford more than one watchman per directional quadrant any more. "Advancing on his position?"

"In a larger group than prior scouting parties." The ensign's voice was steady and firm at least, the stability of a quality officer. If he lived so long. "Sir, it appears they intend to clear the last of us out."

"It would be their next, most logical step," Thrawn agreed, and examined the feelings that prompted. Tension, of course, reluctance as no matter how this proceeded he would lose more of his people. Fear? A bit, yes. A warrior was honest with himself and he was, in some small way, afraid to die. Relief. That was the primary sensation. They had been here too long, trapped in limbo, and one way or another a final push by the enemy would resolve that.

He could not, of course, let any of them see relief.

"Assemble everyone except the comm techs. They are to gather what they can, prioritizing the computer core, and retreat up the ravine. The rest of us will create a firing line and hold off the Xhalat until the technicians are away."

Thrawn saw the expression, quickly hidden, on the ensign's face. The techs might get clear of the ravine and, with only two, they might have some hope of hiding in the less-hospitable terrain for some time, even long enough to find a way off the planet. The chances any of the defenders would survive to retreat after them was substantially less than the odds of the techs' survival, and those were long already. But the Commander had given an order, and the ensign would follow it. "Aye, sir." His voice was even and firm as if they were still on a bridge and it was merely an order to change duty rotations.

Thrawn wished, not for the first time, more armor and small weapons had survived the initial impact. The ravine was defensible, but facing a head-on assault against a large force that was determined to clear them out, rocks and a few charrics with one functioning larger maser canon meant for ground assault were not going to slow down a determined enemy. He narrowed his eyes, watching for a signal from the picket. Another crew member forced into a role outside his training, but like the others, he never hesitated, not when so much was at stake, and none had eve spoken openly about how increasingly desperate their situation was.

There was a distant vibration, more felt through the ground than heard. Repulsors, or something like it–the Xhalat did have ground vehicles, mostly with technology they'd adapted from other races. But these sounded different, the tone and frequency wrong, much like all the weapons and vehicles he'd seen since the ambush and their stranding. Thrawn wished for a pair of electrobinocs, or a functioning sensor array, anything to give him a better idea what was coming than waiting until they were in visual range.

_It cannot be helped._ "Do not give them a chance to pinpoint our position. Allow the first units to enter the ravine and pass the sentry point. We will attempt to catch them in a crossfire. As the enemy advance is slowed, we will fall back by pairs. I will remain until I give the order for the sentry to withdraw and retreat with him."

He saw the look. The knew, as well as he did, that the last to go would have the least chance. None of them would have expected any less from him. This was one case where a Chiss warrior would  _not_  lead from the front.

The sound grew louder, and the first of the Xhalat forces came into view. Thrawn blinked, keeping any surprise from showing otherwise. The figures had the general reptiloid shape of the Xhalat, but the armor they wore-black, matte, with an odd tint to it that seemed sometimes green, sometimes black, was not of a design Thrawn had ever seen and far too flexible for any material he was familiar with. The scouts were moving ahead on foot, and were carrying long-barreled blaster rifles that looked far too narrow where the power pack should be to have any kind of stopping power but which he knew from hard experience did. Behind them he saw one of the ground vehicles, covered with the same kind of armor plating and with weapons he couldn't readily identify, but which he suspected delivered the same kind of damage the innocent-looking small arms did.

He braced himself. The first units were moving beneath their picket's position. He began a mental count, waiting for the moment. This was less tactics than instinct, the sixth sense of a warrior reading the rapidly-changing situation and letting experience guide him unconsciously.

_Now._

"Picket one, target the third vehicle and fire."

The blast from the charric struck the carrier in its drive section and did enough damage it skewed wildly sideways, knocking down a line of the soldiers. For a moment, Thrawn saw the scrambling disorganization he expected from the Xhalat-by nature a slow-moving species accustomed to a dry, rocky environment on a tectonically stable world. Sudden disruptions disorganized their thinking, and it took time for them to reorganize.

Or it had. It should. Yet again, he found them catching themselves, regrouping as if they feared some kind of discipline, bringing weapons up too efficiently. With them disorganized there was some chance of delaying, that the covering fire would be enough.

Without it, they had minutes.

Thrawn counted, calculated how far the techs could have gone at the best possible pace, the speed he'd ordered. Not far enough.

The lead row of the Xhalat phalanx was reforming.

He was out of time.

"Target the front ranks, fire at will."

Aleishia's fighter cut through the atmosphere at a steep angle, one she would happily admit would have scorched the hull of a Temple fighter. Her sensors showed nothing–naturally, she wouldn't be able to pick up anything with the tiny ship that the long-range equipment of the Ascendany's best warships couldn't identify–but she didn't need it. The sense in the Force was unmistakable, she was on the right track. They were close, it was a matter of following her instincts now.

Instincts, and the sudden pinging of an alert from her scanners. There was a firefight going on below, and her computers identified at least some of the weapons as Chiss. She banked the fighter, watching the signal strength and listening in the Force. She didn't know Thrawn's sense, not the way Lisetha did, but she was familiar enough to know that he, and other Chiss, were nearby.

And the chills in the Force said they were in danger. Even as she narrowed her focus, she felt a tearing the Force, another life, then another, and the chill that came with the knowledge of death, immediate and close. Not Thrawn, something told her, but those close to him.

She was out of time for subtleties. Slamming the drive to the top of its atmospheric range she let her instincts take full control, let the Force guide her. The small laser canons were not going to do significant damage on their own, but she'd have more than the computers to guide her targeting. And she didn't have to do much more than buy him time, destroy enough of the enemy for the homing signal to work.

She saw the column of smoke rising as she broke through the cloud cover, just before the targeting computer chirped a warning (even Chiss alert signals were matter-of-fact) and the two bogeys appeared in her rear sensor readout. The rippling cold told her exactly what sort of fighters these were, as she dove low, the shivering not-alive, not-machine sense of the dark ships close behind.

Thrawn braced himself and stood from behind cover, shooting off several blasts from his sidearm into the increasingly-smoke-shrouded target. The first armored vehicle was now a barricade, slowing the enemy advance but giving them additional cover. They had already taken advantage, though he deliberately did not look at the fallen Chiss forms. He could remember names and faces later. Distraction now would make their sacrifice meaningless.

There was motion behind the enemy barricade in the smoke and dust. The two remaining crewmen with him kept up the covering fire, but Thrawn saw one narrow his eyes, trying to track the new movement. "Maintain fire on the barricade," he ordered, dropping back behind cover and checking the power pack on his own weapon. Low. Not a surprise, but disheartening nonetheless. "On my command, fall back up the ravine and regroup with the others." He didn't mention how few that was, and neither of them was tactless enough to comment. "I will cover your retreat, and follow when you're clear."

Neither of them were undisciplined enough to reply to that, either, beyond a quick exchange of looks. But it took another hard look from him to make them pick up their weapons and begin moving up the ravine, slower than Thrawn would have liked, but the terrain was poor and they were trying to say as covered as they could. He waited until they were out of his line of sight, and then rose again, aiming for the new shapes moving in the smoke.

Shapes of mechanical, bug-like creations, jointed at odd angles, made odd shadows against the dust and smoke, and he couldn't tell if they were a kind of battle armor or some sort of freestanding weapon. But he knew they were armed, and he could see the points of at least three weapons each leveling in his direction.

_A warrior's duty_ , he told himself, and gave himself an instant to hope that Lisetha was already at peace with his loss, that their child would learn about him from her and from Thrass. Then he opened fire, trying to aim above the Xhalat foot soldiers and hit the new weapons. The bolts looked well-aimed, but they vanished with a flare of whitish-green light half a meter from the insectoid figures. Small-scale shielding–more than enough for hand weapons. Thrawn grimaced, and lowered his aim, but had to duck as the two opened fire. The weapons, he noted, appeared to be some sort of plasma orbs, but prudent cover prevented any closer inspection on his part. He did risk another quick look and two more shots and to his dismay saw the stronger firepower was indeed cover. A pair of the Xhalat soldiers had leapt the barrier, headed not for his position, but up the ravine. And the others were trying to clear the barricade–for more ground assault vehicles.

Thrawn leveled the charric again and the first of the two in the vanguard went down. Once again he had to dive for cover as the second opened fired, shattering the stone above his hiding place and raining shards down on him. The plasma canons opened up again and he pressed back against the rock, knowing his choice of cover meant retreat was implausible at best.

That was when he heard the slight whine of engines meant for space operating in atmosphere. Air support, then, and Thrawn braced himself.

And then the nature of the sound registered.

_Chiss_. Those drives were Chiss, and he risked a desperate glace up.

The fighter blasted through the canyon tilted on edge, at a speed even in these circumstances Thrawn found excessive and the sign of a reckless pilot. It was fast enough he couldn't even be certain of the house colors but he thought (or hoped) he had seen a flash of green.

Then he was ducking and covering again as the fighter blasted the overturned ground assault vehicle and it exploded in a shower of sparks and razor-sharp debris. Another shadow swept by behind and the fighter snapped in an impossibly-tight turn. It was being tailed, Thrawn realized, by a blur of black in the same shadowy armor as the Xhalat were using, but he had no time to examine the craft. The Chiss fighter managed the bank, but the enemy ship couldn't follow, slamming into the wall of the ravine even as his miraculous savior vanished above the rim.

The Xhalat were scrambling and he realized he was wasting time speculating. Standing and stepping as clear as he dared, he fired into the milling line of the enemy. The mounted weapons started to turn back in his direction, but before they could come to bear he saw a figure, not climbing but  _falling_ from the cliff top, a figure that was vaguely Chiss-shaped. Had the pilot ejected and the repulsors in the seat failed? He braced himself for the impact of a body on the rocky ground–

And Thrawn felt his jaw drop, a more overt expression than he ever allowed himself, but he couldn't help it. The figure flipped in midair, and landed not with a bone-shattering crash, but nimbly in a crouch. She–the figure was female, and too small to be any Chiss he knew, he realized–rose to her feet, a long silver object in her right hand.

With a sound like a snap-hiss, that carried even over the noise of the enemy troops scrambling to reorient themselves, the silver object emitted a glowing pale blue blade of light.

Thrawn stared. He could do nothing else, and he realized he didn't need to do anything else. The blade spun and the first of the spidery mounted weapons shattered into pieces. Whatever shielding it had clearly couldn't block the strange light-sword. The other spider-like weapon swung around and he fired instinctively, trying to draw its attention from his unexpected ally to give her time to get out of its range.

He didn't need to. She leapt. Not a diving roll, or a jump on top of one of the rocks. Her jump was impossibly light, incredibly high, a tight somersault that carried her over the second machine before it could respond and the blade stabbed down. How she'd completed the blow in midair he couldn't fathom, but the weapon collapsed, falling in two pieces.

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo!"

He was so startled by how her voice carried it took him an instant to realize she had called his name, and a second longer to recognize her.  _Aleishia_. Of all people, the figure–the warrior–now spinning her alien weapon in a blur of motion, actually batting away bolts from the Xhalat weapons–it was Aleishia, the human, with her chalk-like skin and lightless eyes. To call what she was doing fighting was a gross understatement, to call it dancing not even sufficiently precise. It was as if she could see every attack coming before it did, could use her blade as if it were part of her body, and even as he watched she raised a hand, and two of the soldiers who were making a headlong charge at her suddenly flew through the air, tossed by some unseen force with a sickening crack against a boulder. Even as they were flung away, she was pivoting on one foot, the blade arcing, deflecting a bolt from a rifle back into the shooter.

She wasn't a dancer with that blade. Not even a warrior. She was an artist.

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo!" she shouted again, somehow finding the focus to look at him. "Are you all right?"

He moved further out from cover, and fired off a shot even as another of the soldiers crumbled under her blade. "At the moment. The fleet?"

"I have a homing signal. The fighter's comm will boost it–to me, now!" She whirled, and the last of the soldiers still fighting staggered, a long, smoldering wound across his torso.

Thrawn sprinted from cover, but she had been exquisitely thorough. Other than locks of her dirt-brown hair working themselves free of their braid, she did not even look as if she'd been exerting herself. "How did you find us?"

"I used the Force," she said, with an expression he thought was wry. "And what records Lisetha and Thrass could pry out of the Defense Heirarchy. We don't have time for details. Once the signal's gone through and we know help is coming, I'll have to be clear before it arrives. How many other survivors are there?"

"Less than two dozen." Thrawn had at least that many questions about everything she had just said, but it would need to wait. "Lisetha sent you?"

"After a fashion." She was leading him up a perilously rocky trace to the cliff top, but he refrained from asking if she couldn't simply somehow repeat her spectacular descent, this time with a passenger. "You've been written off for dead, if you're wondering. I think even your brother believes it by now. Since no one else was going to do and your wife is otherwise occupied, I decided I would have to take matters into my own hands." Her alien eyes narrowed. "You haven't asked."

"As it appears there will be time enough for personal matters later, I thought it out of place at the moment." But now that she had raised it . . . . "The child?"

For a moment, her smiled softened to something that would be too personal if she were Chiss. "You have a daughter. Born a bit soon, but healthy, and with lungs that would put a bantha to shame, as the entire household would tell you if they weren't all as besotted with her as I'm sure you'll be."

"A girl. Lisetha was right, a girl." He tried to imagine what she must look like and shoved the absurd attempt out of his mind. He would know soon enough. "And Lisetha?"

"Just as healthy, and believe me, if she weren't too busy even without the baby, she'd have been here too." The steep ascent didn't appear to take any extra effort on her part and he had to fight down an entirely uncharitable flare of annoyance. "Everyone thinks she's mad, but she's never doubted you were alive. Not for a moment." Her eyes narrowed. "I almost wonder if she knew even more than she was letting on. What did you mean, she was right?"

Now was not the time to dwell on whether his dreams were dreams. "Exactly what I said," he said, a bit ungraciously considering she was rescuing him, as they came to the top of the ravine. Something else caught up in his mind, the jarring alien word in the midst of her Cheunh. "Lungs like a what?"

Before she could reply Aleishia grabbed his arm and shoved him aside, so hard he staggered and nearly slipped on the edge. Before he could chastise her or even protest at all he saw what had prompted her sudden action, and why the blade was once again alight in her hand.

Standing at the top of the cliff was a figure cloaked in black, his clothes beneath that same shadowy armor, covered with wires and leads and a red light like a mockery of an eye near his face. The skin was paler than Aleishia's, paler than he remembered from the mining asteroid, and he wondered how he could have thought her like a dead creature when he had this basis for comparison. The same glowing green blade he'd used to attack Lisetha was in his hand here, and Thrawn could see it was the same as the weapon Aleishia held now.

The figure seemed to pause, as if he had not expected them, and then something seemed to jolt his focus back to the task. "Jedi," he said. "And the other. This time neither of you will escape the orders of the machine." The blade came up, less an at-ready pose for combat than an executioner bringing it to bear.

Thrawn waited, but Aleishia didn't move to strike. He realized she was trembling–but after facing down a score of soldiers, weapons that fired faster than any hand, Chiss or otherwise, could mange, fear now? Exhaustion?

She finally seemed to blink, and fixed on the other's face. "No. No, this can't be."

The dark man hesitated, again seemed puzzled by something. "You are . . . Jedi. You stand in the path of the machine. As do the Chiss. All who do not serve will die." He paused, again with that sense of confusion. "You did not die."

"No." Aleishia's voice was so faint Thrawn almost couldn't hear her. "No, I didn't die. This is a trick. You're not him. He would never serve you."

That seemed to catch his attention. "I serve the machine. You do not. So you will die." Once again the green blade came up.

Aleishia didn't move.

Thrawn drew his charric, cursing silently at how the battle fatigue made his reflexes slow. The dark man saw the motion, turned, the blade's arc changing and swinging to block the bolt.

Aleishia jerked as if out of a daze, and her hand flashed up. The dark man was struck in the chest as if by an invisible fist, and he flew backwards, to the edge and over, without even a cry.

Thrawn spun on his heel. "What–"

"My fighter's this way," she said, pointing. "Run. Now!"

To his own disgust he was obeying before he could even think about how inappropriate her tone was in any circumstance. He had to; she was sprinting quicker than before, impossibly fast for someone almost thirty centimeters shorter. "What–who was that?"

"Not now!" The fighter was indeed marked with the second family's colors, and Thrawn made a mental note to not inquire how they had armed a private transport quite so effectively. Aleishia had popped the cockpit and was fussing with the comm system. "The code key is here," and she pointed to the appropriate slot. "Lisetha said you'd know how to use it to contact the fleet. I'll keep watch while you send the signal."

Thrawn put his question aside, long enough at least to begin the command codes and emergency overrides. The fighter's transmitter was not as strong as their ship's had been, but it was intact and operational, and the codes Lisetha (his brilliant, resourceful, faithful Lisetha, whom he'd see after all and soon and with their daughter) had acquired were high-level command overrides. Every relay for a thousand light years would be screaming until it was answered. "You didn't attack him. You were afraid of him." He left unsaid  _you left him alive at our backs when I could have killed him._

"Not afraid." She was staring, not keeping watch. There was a blank distance in her eyes.

"Who was he?"

Aleishia closed her eyes. "A dead man. An impossibility. A trick to break me, that's all."

"If he is a trick, then he was played on Lisetha and me at the mining station," Thrawn said, never taking his eyes off the comm, waiting. "What makes you think he was meant to break you?"

"Because he can't be. It isn't him." That numb tone was one he had heard in the last months, the kind of denial even the speaker knew was hopeless. "He would never become . . . what that thing is."

Thrawn was growing tired of the pronouns. "He?"

She waited a long time. He was about to ask again when, at the same instant the comm flared green and the scrolling text of a relay station's response began to appear, she finally said, "Mihall. My master. My husband."


End file.
